It's Kiss Or Kill

I'm having a teeny problem with frustration.

Pete: Did you talk to your sister?
Tata: My sisters are so stupid!
Pete: Ah, so you did talk to Corinne?
Tata: I'm not speaking to Corinne so I don't shriek about how stupid she's being. Which is pretty stupid.
Pete: Well, how about Anya?
Tata: Anya is being stupid and I'm not talking to her because I'll tell her she's so stupid!
Pete: All right, then. Is Daria feeling better?
Tata: Daria can hardly talk. She's got antibiotics but she almost coughed up a lung when I told her cigarettes and whiskey on her night table would make that rasp glamorous. So she's stupid, too!
Pete: Would you like to make the salad?
Tata: No. I'd like to sulk, then pout, and later, I'll try to fit in some brooding.
Pete: You don't want to make the salad?
Tata: I'm stupid, right? Pot to Black Kettle! Come in, Black Kettle!

X's We're Desperate has repeated on the mental jukebox since I read Lux Interior died a couple days ago. Why not a song Lux wrote? Ya got me. Maybe watching Congress dither while America burns has got me down. Probably. Siobhan's cruising around the Gulf of Mexico, but she's never too busy to email celebrity gossip.

Tata: Ya drunk?
Siobhan: No, but I'm 15 feet from where Sarah McLaughlin and her daughter are swimming in a small pool.

When famously depressed Canadians are fine, what am I so fidgety about?