In the introduction to Slapstick, Kurt Vonnegut recounts a story his brother, an atmospheric scientist, had told him. I’ll re-recount that here, paraphrasing of course:
One day an inspector entered the laboratory and froze, horrified. And with good reason, as the slightest misstep could result in death by any of a dozen hazards strewn about the room. Stalagshites towered to the ceiling, beakers filled and unfilled were placed randomly at counter edges, apparatuses zapped and buzzed menacingly. In reaction to this, Kurt’s brother smiled and said, tapping his forehead with his finger, “You think this is bad, you should see what’s in here!”
This is how I reconcile Kate’s prolonged absences. Her dwellings are cluttered, chaotic death traps, but her head has got to be a fair bit worse.
This is probably why we get along so splendidly.