Hiding In The Bathroom When You're Not The Bloggess

When you hear your dead husband's distinct giggle come hopping out of a living non-relative's mouth, do you:
A. Tell that person how cool it was to hear a dead man's laugh? Ask for a repeat performance and offer them a Coors Light.
B. Stare at the person like you've seen a ghost. Tell them you don't believe in ghosts, but thanks for the cool impression. Offer them a shot of Jack.
C. Quietly scurry off to the bathroom where you try to do your very best impression of The Bloggess, but realize you have to cut it short because you've forgotten to bring snacks, an entourage, and the bathroom is entirely too small. Then make do by hyperventilating, sobbing, recalling the first dream you had after Bob died where he appeared and you awoke remembering he was dead and how this feels so gut-rippingly similar, and then pry your head out as best you can and return to the world, everyone not buying that you're just suffering from allergy eyes. Drink all the drinks. Or at least consider it.

Remind me never to sign up for any neuropsych experiments involving electrodes zapping my memories into action. I'd need Xanax Popsicles or something.