And then on top of everything else, this morning I fainted while making coffee. Making coffee in my bleach-splattered pajama bottoms. In my dirty kitchen. And then Buttercup came over and licked the cold sweat off my brow, which precludes any effort on my part to redub the episode as a touch of the vapors.

And the week is off to a less-than-dignified start.

"I did not sign up for the delicate flower option," Adam said when I had pulled myself onto the couch and was feeling a little more like myself. "And I don't want the delicate flower retrofit. I want the hearty-yet-pretty weed."

"Like a dandelion?"

"No. Something pretty, but hearty. Like a sunflower. A happy, shiny sunflower."

"Sunflowers aren't weeds."

"Name a hearty-yet-pretty weed."

"I've always liked dandelions."

"And you fell over like one hit with weed-eater. What happened?"

"I mixed a narcotic analgesic with a really decent bottle of ten dollar merlot and slept nine hours. When I stood up, my body had issues and went into safe-boot."

"English, please."

"My normally-low blood pressure plummeted and I got a little woozy."

"Are you sure that's all?"

"Yes."

"Not dying?"

"Nope."

"Not, how should I put this? Incubating a chest burster?"

"No!*"

"Not a delicate flower?"

"Dandelions all the way."

"Promise?"

"Promise not to douse me in Roundup?"

"Mmmkay, then."

I'm fine. I'm normal. I'm just stupid, is all.

The hand's better. Okay, so I'm going to have some bitchin' red spots for the next several weeks, but I've redubbed it the lobster hand. It's fine. I'm fine. I am not a delicate flower.







*And seriously, no e-mails asking anything along the lines of being host to a chestburster, because honestly? No. Seriously. Cut it out. Kisses, --S.