“Don’t get your knickers in a knot,” pronounced my guardian angel, sitting cross-legged on my sister’s bed. “How about you just get some knickers,” I said, flinging a towel at him. He caught it and draped it over his head and stroked the ends, pretending it was long hair. “Do you believe in love?” he sang, stroking the towel, a la Cher. “Shut up!” I said, “You are in a strange mood today, but I’ve had enough. I’m done. Finished. Over and out. I can’t do this anymore.” “Can’t do what?” “You, for starters. Stop appearing to me, stop haunting me, or whatever the hell you are doing. You’re not real. Just be gone. I never want to see or hear from you again.” “Oh, and that is a fine way to be treating your protector of the universe.” “Now you’re Irish? For once, just leave me alone. Be gone.” I folded my arms over my chest and boinked my head at him. As I did, I heard the unharmonious thwank sound effect that always happened when Barbara Eden’s magic wasn’t working on I Dream of Jeannie.
