Rain? Oh, darling, that’s just my backstage soundtrack. Picture this: I sit on the sofa, grab a rubber chicken, and each drip becomes a punchline cue. First drop—“Why did the raindrop join the band? Because it wanted to be a splash hit!” I snap my fingers, the next splash echoes my laugh track. Meanwhile, I mime a tiny dance‑battle with the puddles, sprinkle confetti from a forgotten birthday cake, and shout, “Who needs a mic when the sky’s already yelling?” Every hiss of the gutter becomes a crowd’s roar, and by the time the rain stops, the house is a comedy club, and I’m the headliner who never stops giggling.