Adam finds me sprawled across the bed, arms thrown over my head and probably snoring gently. Oh, and drooling. I'm a drooler.

"Jesus," he says balancing my coffee mug on my forehead. "You look like a junkie with a cutting problem."

"I like it when you lead with the 'wake up, poogle.' " That last line might be more effective if I actually say it, but in the space of thirty seconds I was awake, gotten the arm thing and I have scalding coffee balancing over my line of sight, and we're in Albuquerque, home of the hot coffee lawsuit. I am not thinking on my feet.

I pull the coffee off my head, sit up, smack a couple of times and do the head-swivel-pointed look. "Junkie? Cutting problem?"

He points at the underside of my left elbow. I had blood pulled on Tuesday and the really fantastic bruise that bloomed is showing no sign of turning yellow and fading away any time soon. When I bruise, I do it with enthusiasm and staying power.

And then he points to the newest line of parallel angry red scratches on my right arm just below my wrist where I had to deal with an angry, duct-taped ferret with claws that should double as Ginsu knives. No. Don't ask. "Junkie. Cutting. If you wear short sleeves to work, they're gonna ask you if everything's okay at home."

"I'm fine," I say. "Except for the crippling intravenous cupcake addiction."

This is when Buttercup climbs onto the bed so she can get at Adam's yogurt. Another morning ritual. We talk about the weekend and making it through the day. I get a list for Adam's Annual Easter Basket.

Eventually, Adam has to go to work. "Have a good day, Junkie," he says, patting me affectionately before leaving.

"I am not a junkie."

"Yes you are."

"You mix Nyquil and Dayquil together."

"Good-bye, Junkie."

It's not an exciting life, but I'd say it's a pretty damn good one.