Would someone please tell me what the hell I'm supposed to do all day?

My alarm went off at 5 a.m., same as always, and I got as far as starting the coffeemaker before I realized that it was Sunday.

Damned if I could remember who I was supposed to be meeting with on Sunday.

Despite my assistant's assertions, I am not helpless without her. I am perfectly capable of figuring out my schedule by myself.

It's just that calling her at 5 a.m. is amusing. Oh, sure, she carefully cultivates that perky, terminally cheerful demeanor. But in reality? Donnatella Moss is not a morning person. Well, not an *early* morning person. Trust me, she doesn't like it when you wake her out of a sound sleep.

Wait. I didn't mean that the way it sounded.

I would like to state for the record that I have never personally gotten Donnatella Moss out of bed.

Well, no, wait again: That's not completely accurate. I have, in fact, been the one to wake Donna more times than I can count.

That's not sounding so good either, is it?

Let's try this: I have, on numerous occasions, called Donnatella Moss early in the morning. Often, these calls have roused her from what she assured me was a deep sleep. Not having been in the room with her, I can neither confirm nor deny whether she was telling the truth.

Or what she may have been wearing. Or not wearing, as the case may be.

Not that I've spent any time wondering about that. No, sir, not me.

I've always imagined her in one of those oversized t-shirt things. The sort that would ride up her legs as she slept and sort of bunch up around her hips. And she'd probably kick the covers off at least partway so that one of those long, pale legs is exposed and…

But really, no, I swear I have no personal knowledge about any of this.

Nor have I given it that much thought.

Except for the time I decided it was a crime against nature if Donna has white sheets. Or the kind with some girly, Martha-Stewart-does-Kmart pattern. Donnatella Moss requires dark sheets to display her alabaster skin to full advantage.

That is purely an aesthetic observation, you understand. I am not admitting to having any fantasies regarding my assistant and navy blue sheets. Like the sheets currently on my bed.

Hell, I have a girlfriend of my very own. Sort of. For the time being. I haven't actually seen Amy in four months, but we never formally broke up.

So, you see, my desire to wake Donna up at 5 a.m.? Purely professional.

Yeah, I know. I'm not buying it either.

The truth? It's Sunday, it's 5 a.m., I'm awake, I have nothing to do, and Donna sounds way too cute when she's sleepy and annoyed.

She picks up the phone on the second ring, proof that she was sound asleep. Donna, awake and in full assistant mode, always answers on the first ring. Always.

"Go away, Josh,`" she mutters. There's this little hint of a groan at the beginning of her sentence. I am not feeling like a boss. Or a man with a girlfriend.

Leaning back against the pillows, I prepare to enjoy the verbal delight that is sleepy, cranky Donna. "But I need to know my schedule," I protest.

"Schedule." She doesn't so much say this word as she sighs it. Right in my ear. I'm betting her eyes are still closed. I'm betting she's got the phone tucked under her ear like a pillow, and she hasn't bothered to sit up. She's still lying against those navy blue sheets, all that pale skin and blonde hair displayed to perfection. There's another sigh, and I imagine her sinking back into sleep.

"Donna, focus. My schedule. I need to know my schedule for the day."

I swear I can hear the sheets rustling around her as she sits up. Sitting will, of course, cause the nightshirt to ride up farther, possibly to her waist. For some reason, I'm imagining her settling back down so she's stretched out on her left side. She's holding the phone in her right hand, she's using her left arm to sort of prop her head up, leaning on her left elbow. She doesn't bother to push her nightshirt back down, and I'm focusing on the spectacle of Donna's exposed skin. I'm particularly entranced with the section from her waist to about midway down her thigh.

Yes, I'm well aware that I'm putting an unhealthy amount of thought into this.

"Josh," she asks, "what day is it?"

"Cute" is the only way to describe how confused she sounds.

"Sunday, Donnatella. Today is Sunday."

"Oh. Right. Sunday." She sounds like she's drifting off again.

"Yes. It's Sunday. And my schedule for Sunday is…?"

"Josh, are you in bed?"

She sounds wide awake now, dammit. Also annoyed.

"No." Hell, yes, I lie. I'm a politician.

"Then go get your backpack, find the copy of this week's schedule I put in there yesterday, and figure it out for yourself."

She's going to hang up on me. Dammit. I have to think fast.

"Donna, wait. What if I can't decipher your handwriting?" The schedule is a computer printout. I know that. Donna knows I know that. Donna is going to hang up on me.

More rustling. Soft, amused, whispery voice. "Would you like me to stay on the line while you check?"

Hell, yes. Cause this whole Donna-in-bed fantasy I've got going here? Likely to be the best part of my day. Thank god I dropped the backpack by the side of the bed last night.

"Hold on." I grab the backpack, unceremoniously dumping its contents onto the bed. The computer printout is there, all right. Attached to it is one of those post-it notes in some hideous dayglo shade that Donna claims is color-coded for increased efficiency. I myself could not tell you the difference in meaning between the hot pink post-its, the Donna's-eyes-blue post-its, and the regular yellow post-its. But she assures me there's a system, and I should learn it.

I assure Donna that I keep her around so I don't have to learn the color coding scheme.

The hot pink post-it says, "You have no meetings today. Go back to bed. Do *not * call me!!!" "Not," I should point out, is underlined twice, and there are three exclamation points at the end of the last sentence.

Yes, I can read her handwriting. No problem with that. After four years, Donna's distinctive penmanship is as familiar to me as my own handwriting.

"Yeah," I tell her, "I found the schedule. I really have the day off?"

"You really have the day off," she replies. "As do I. I will talk to you on Monday."

"Donna, wait!" I may have over-reacted there. I practically screamed into the phone to keep her from hanging up on me.

"What, Josh?" She has that exasperated, "I have better things to do with my day than talk to you" tone in her voice.

I find that insulting. I ask you, how better to spend the day than doing this?

Okay, that mental image that just flashed through my brain? That's better, I'll admit. But unlikely to happen, so let me rephrase: Of the options realistically open to us, what's better? Got to keep her on the line.

"There's one of your post-it notes attached," I point out. "One of the pink ones."

She sighs again. It sounds as though she's moving back onto her side again. When she speaks, her tone is all whispery. "Pink is for personal messages from me to you. I have told you this about a hundred times."

"I find it intriguing that you use the girly color for that."

"You're an idiot, Josh."

"Really. You could write a whole little treatise on this: The Hidden Language of Post-it Notes."

"Don't diss the color coding, Josh."

She's still whispering, and I get a sudden kick-to-the-stomach sensation. What if she's whispering because she's not alone in that bed, and she doesn't want to wake the other occupant?

If it's that Republican weasel again, I'll kill him. With my bare hands if necessary.

Strictly because of the conflict of interest, you understand.

Don't give me that crap about how the hearings are over, there's no longer any conflict of interest, and it turned out he's not such a bad guy after all.

I say he's a weasel.

Because…because…you know, I don't need a reason. And if I had one, I'm sure it would have nothing to do with his unlimited access to Donnatella Moss and her naked body.

Okay, so obviously I need to discover whether Donna is alone in bed. In which case that whispery, sexy voice thing she's got going takes on a whole new meaning.

A meaning which should best be ignored.

I can do that. You'd be amazed at the number of things I've managed to ignore in the last four years.

The key here is to be subtle. To gain the pertinent information without letting her know that's what I'm doing. Cause otherwise, you know, I'll never hear the end of it.

"All I'm saying is that hot pink is an interesting choice, Donna."

"Why?" Still whispery, back to sounding annoyed. Annoyed by the question or annoyed that I'm keeping her from bland Republican sex?

"A person could, if a person were so inclined, think all that girly pink had a hidden message."

"And that hidden message would be…?"

Oh, she's alone. She's definitely alone. And how I know that is because there is no man, weasely Republican or honorable Democrat, who would sit by quietly while the woman he was in bed with used *that * tone with another man. That tone is, well, I'd use the word "flirtatious," but it hardly does justice to Donnatella Moss and her sexy voice. I swear to you the woman *growled * on that last sentence.

The good kind of growl.

She's alone. She's still mine.

Shit. Where did *that * thought come from?

You know, maybe I should take that tone as encouragement. Maybe I should go for it. See where this leads.

Completely destroy my relationship with Donna when it turns out I imagined that sexy growl.

I did not imagine that growl.

To hell with it. I'm going for it.

"The hidden meaning? Well, let's see. Pink is usually associated with femininity, isn't it? A person might conclude that you're attempting to display your femininity in front of him. And not an innocent pastel sort of femininity either. The note is *hot * pink, Donna. If that's not a subliminal message, I don't know what it is."

"It's a sale at Office Depot. Multi-colored packages now half price. I didn't select the color, Idiot Boy."

Now, judging from what she says there, you may think Ms. Donnatella Moss is pissed off. In fact, I think she's attempting to sound pissed off, but she can't make it happen. No, she sounds like she's this close to breaking into giggles. I'm willing to bet you serious money that she's doing that thing where her toes wiggle. I've seen Donna's toes, and they are a work of art. Especially when she does that little sensual wiggling thing. (What? It was perfectly innocent. Labor Day picnic at the Bartlet farm. Is it my fault if my assistant enjoys taking off her shoes and wiggling her toes in the water? Is it my fault if I have the occasional fantasy about Donna using those toes to…You know, let's not go there.)

"My point," I say reasonably (if you ignore the disturbingly high-pitched quality my voice has taken on), "is that there were many different colors in the package. You chose the hot pink for personal messages to me. You might want to have a little talk with your subconscious there, Donnatella."

"You might want to put some ice on your ego to bring down the swelling, Joshua."

You want to know what she's doing right now? Right this minute when she says that? She's sinking back onto those navy blue pillows, she's letting her entire body go sort of relaxed and, you know, ready. And there's this smile on her face. I have never, in reality, seen her smile like that.

Donna's smiles are…Here's the thing: I pride myself on my verbal skills. You may not know this, cause I don't like to brag, but I scored an impressive 760 on the verbal portion of the SATs. Since those days, of course, my verbal skills have improved. Therefore, I am quite an articulate fellow. When it comes to cataloguing the varieties of Donna's smiles, however, I can't bring the verbal.

Hell, Shakespeare couldn't bring the verbal for this subject. See, Donna is a beautiful woman. There are her cute little wiggling toes and those long, elegant legs. There's that section of pale skin from her waist to her thighs that I would give up my future in politics to see. On days when she wears sweaters, it is clear that her breasts are a work of art. Her arms are long and pale and the perfect match for her legs. You've got to love the symmetry there. Her neck--Do you know how difficult it has been not to stroke that neck for four years? I mean, it starts right at those tiny, pink ears and moves all the way down to her surprisingly strong shoulders. Donna could carry the weight of the world on those shoulders and not complain. I know this because I've put one hell of a burden on her shoulders from time to time, and she's managed without complaint.

Then there's her hair. It's the perfect shade for her--pale and subtle and at first you don't think much about it. Then the warmth of it hits you, and you realize there's something graceful and elegant about that color and your life would be diminished if you didn't get to look at her every day. As for her eyes…well, I love her eyes. Not just the color, though they're this amazing shade of blue, but the emotions I see in them. I swear there are days when, if I've done something particularly stupid, I'm afraid to look into Donna's eyes. I've been chewed out by the President of the United States in the Oval Office; I've had to look Donna in the eye after screwing up. Getting chewed out by the President is easier.

Which brings me, at last, to Donna's smile. The woman has the most expressive face of anyone I've ever met, and she must have at least a dozen different varieties of smile. There's that quivery little half-smile when she's pretending she's not upset (or that I haven't screwed up). Whenever I see that smile, I want to take her in my arms, beg her forgiveness for whatever I've done wrong this time, and promise to make everything all right. There's that smirk when she thinks she's won our latest round of verbal fencing. I see that one more often than I like to admit. There's the smile she wears most of the time simply because she's Donna and Donna has this incredible ability to find pleasure in the smallest things. Then there's the smile she uses exclusively for me. As far as I know, she's never used that smile on anyone else. This is the smile I have the most trouble describing. It's part her regular, happy-to-be-alive smile and part something else. Something that's private between the two of us, but I don't know what to call it.

So this smile I'm imagining on her face right now? It's mostly that last smile. But it's something else too. Something---don't laugh---passionate and sensual and all those other cliches.

I don't know why I'm convinced that's what she'd look like if we…But yeah, I *know * that's what she'd look like.

"Josh, did you just groan?"

Post-it notes. We were having a conversation about post-it notes, and I need a cold shower.

What the hell is wrong with me?

"No."

"Is your back bothering you again?"

"If I say yes, will you come over here and give me a massage?"

Yeah, I can't believe I said that out loud either.

"Don't you have a girlfriend to do that sort of thing for you?"

Hey, look, I'm a busy man; I have a country to help run. Is it my fault if I haven't gotten around to mentioning the four-months-without-Amy thing?

All right. Fine. I admit it. I'm a coward. I am unprepared for the rounds of "I told you so" from, well, most of my friends. I am especially unprepared for…Well, for this right here. The moment when I no longer have the "I am a man in a committed relationship" excuse between me and Donna. I've worked that excuse for all it was worth these last few months, let me tell you.

Because I am not a stupid man. I've seen other people in this town try the whole "boss has affair with assistant" thing. I have never seen that turn out well. Especially not for the assistant.

You can accuse me of any number of personality flaws. I'm probably guilty. But intentionally inflicting pain on Donnatella Moss? Not gonna happen.

Damn. I'm talking myself out of this, aren't I?

Stupid conscience.

"Yeah, well, it was just an idea," I reply.

At least I know how I'm spending the rest of my morning. It's a familiar routine. You have no idea how many cold showers I've had to take following an early morning phone call to Donna.

There's this sigh on the other end of the phone line. What the hell is that about?

"I just ask," she says, "because I can't remember the last time you mentioned Amy."

"Well, you know, ever since she took that job in New York---"

"In fact, you haven't even gone to visit her in four months."

"I'm pretty sure I have."

"As the person in charge of making your plane reservations, I'm positive you haven't."

"As difficult as this may be for you to believe, Ms. Moss, I can actually pick up a phone and make reservations without you."

She laughs, of course. After all, if there is one thing we both know, it is that I depend on Donna to arrange all those little details that keep my life running smoothly.

"I'd be pretty pissed if my boyfriend neglected me for four months," she says.

What is going on here? Is she fishing for information to serve up at the next meeting of the "Josh Lyman Is an Idiot" Club (founding members Donnatella Moss and Claudia Jean Cregg)? Or…

No. Let's stick to that first theory before I throw caution to the wind and admit that, not only have I not seen Amy in four months, my last conversation with my so-called girlfriend did not go well.

"We were in the middle of a re-election campaign. I was busy. Amy understood that."

"Past tense," she notes. "Interesting."

"Yes. Past tense. Because the campaign is over."

"So why aren't you spending your day off in New York?"

Because the woman I want to spend my day off with is right here in DC?

"As you'll recall, I didn't know I had the day off," I point out reasonably.

I can hear her turn back over on her side again. I'm doing my best not to imagine what she looks like. I'm not succeeding, although I have managed to give her white sheets.

Her legs, I should point out, still look naked and fabulous, even with nondescript white sheets.

"Shouldn't you be paying attention to things like when you can take some time off to see the woman you love?"

"I don't have to---" Damn. She nearly tangled me up in her clever verbal web there, didn't she? Let's start again. "Amy understands these things."

"How convenient for you." Would someone explain to me why Donna sounds so pissed off?

"I suppose it is." Yeah, that didn't sound so convincing even to me. I've got to work on my delivery if I'm going to make this whole "I'm still in love with Amy" thing work. Until I can manage that, I'm thinking my best bet is to hang up and take that cold shower. "Listen, you go back to sleep now. Sorry to wake you. I'll---"

"Josh, wait! I almost forgot. You have that meeting tomorrow."

"Could you be a little more vague there, Donna? Cause I probably only have half a dozen meetings tomorrow, and we wouldn't want me to guess which one you're referring to."

"Campaign finance reform. 8 a.m. With Congresswoman Mooney."

"Oh. Okay."

"You need to read up on that today."

"I'm up to speed on campaign finance reform, Donna."

"What if you're not?"

I am completely confused. Donna frequently has that effect on me.

"It's a hot topic," she continues. "Changing every day. There could be new data."

"On a Sunday?"

"It's possible. I should do some research on that."

"On a Sunday?" I repeat.

"Only I don't have a computer at home. On account of your not giving me a raise."

"Ah, *that's * where this conversation is headed." I may be grinning. Donna has *that * effect on me as well.

"You, on the other hand, have a home computer," she points out.

"I have never denied it."

"So I could graciously come over on my day off and do your research."

"Is *that * what the kids are calling it these days?"

"Josh!" Yeah, the Donna in my little fantasy? She's blushing. I swear to god, even her toes blush. "I was not suggesting---"

"I was teasing." Also wishing. But the "I was teasing" excuse helps me save face.

"Yeah, well, for that I'm stopping at Starbucks, and you're paying."

"Agreed."

It is possible, I should note, that I am grinning. I am grinning because this woman I want more than I have ever wanted anything---this woman I absolutely cannot touch---is on her way over to my house. To work.

I need to seek professional help.

Mostly, however, I need to take a cold shower before she gets here. * * * Is there a support group somewhere for women like me? A toll-free hotline perhaps?

1-800-I Love My Boss But He Doesn't Love Me Back?

1-800-His Girlfriend Is All Wrong For Him, Dammit!?

I have no idea why those haven't caught on. It's one of life's great mysteries. It's right up there with the Shroud of Turin and the fate of Atlantis.

Or why Josh doesn't break up with Amy.

She *is * all wrong for him. Anyone can see that. You know what makes her all wrong for him?

Is it her willingness to screw him over for political gain?

No. Josh, whatever his faults (and they are many---I keep a list), respects anyone who can hold her own in a political duel-to-the-death.

Is it her lack of respect for government property? (Do you have any idea how many requisitions to replace cell phones, beepers and PDAs I've had to fill out since they started dating?)

No. Strangely enough, it's not that. I can only assume that their make-up sex is amazing.

Yeah, there's an image I don't want stuck in my head.

No. The reason Josh and Amy are doomed is simple, really.

They're both high maintenance.

There is nothing wrong per se with being high maintenance. It's just the way some people are wired. They need attention. Lots of it. They need someone who will keep their lives running smoothly, stroke their egos, reassure them when they're feeling insecure (because, in my experience, high maintenance people have some serious insecurities). In short, a high maintenance man requires more attention than a high maintenance woman is willing to provide.

It's only a matter of time until Josh and Amy crash and burn. And when they do, I'll be there to, well, do the maintaining.

Or so I have been telling myself for the last eight months.

In fact, I was sure that Amy's move to New York was the beginning of the end. If there is any validity to my theory, a high maintenance woman like Amy Gardner should not do well in a long-distance relationship. I can't believe they've lasted this long.

I mean that literally. I *don't * think they've lasted this long.

Josh is lying to me.

Fact: He has not been to New York to see his girlfriend in four months.

Fact: She has not made any trips out here.

Conclusion: The relationship is over.

Let's review: You have a steady girlfriend. You have a free morning. Who do you call for some sexually charged banter?

Is there anyone besides Joshua Lyman who answered, "Your assistant"?

And yet…

I have no proof. No physical evidence. I need to know, once and for all, whether The Era of Cell Phone Destruction is behind us.

Which is why I am digging around in Josh's bathroom at 8 o'clock on a Sunday morning.

I am looking for traces of Amy.

Yes, I am well aware that I have crossed some kind of line somewhere. But let's get something straight: If a man starts coming on to me over the phone and then starts hemming and hawing about his girlfriend and how she understands him and his oh-so-important job, well, he's sending out mixed messages.

You should have heard him on the phone. He's talking in this incredibly deep, seductive voice. I could just see him, you know? With his hair all mussed up and his eyes still dark the way they are when he first wakes up in the morning. (Hey! It was perfectly innocent! Life-threatening gun shot wound, remember? Somebody had to watch over him.) He probably fell into bed still wearing his t-shirt and his boxers from yesterday. So he's got this sleepy, teasing, sexy voice thing going. And the stuff he's saying to me? This is not the sort of conversation other bosses and assistants have. He's all "and why are you sending me erotic post-it notes, Donna?" "Come over and rub my back, Donna." And I start thinking it's time to call Casey and see if that dotcom job offer still stands because you *know * Leo isn't going to let Josh sleep with his assistant and, while I love working in the White House, I'm betting I'll love sleeping with Josh more. So I ask the obvious question. I mean, I may not like Amy, but it's still bad form to sleep with another woman's man. Even though he was my man first. Sort of. I give him every possible chance to admit that he and Amy are finished.

He doesn't give me so much as a non-denial denial.

What the hell kind of politician is he?

Not to mention the fact that he couldn't have missed those signals I was sending out. Dear god, I did everything short of screaming, "I have wanted to sleep with you for the last four years, Idiot Boy!"

This leads me to conclude that one of two things is going on:

Possibility number one: He's still with Amy. In which case, what the hell was that banter about? Yes, I know: We've been doing that for four years, but this was, well, emotionally charged. Even for us.

Possibility number two: He broke up with Amy, and for reasons that I cannot begin to fathom, he doesn't want me to know. Again, I ask: If he wants to hold on to his "I have a girlfriend" fantasy, why is he coming on to me?

Therefore, under cover of doing research, I have invaded Josh's home. I intend to find out once and for all whether he's still dating Amy.

The bathroom was the obvious place to begin. It's where you start staking out your territory, after all. We've all done it: First, you leave a toothbrush. Then, you leave your little Clinique Bonus Days makeup case with your sample moisturizer and lipstick for emergencies. After that, you move your stuff into the bedroom---a t-shirt, some underwear. Finally, it's the kitchen. You know the relationship is permanent when you leave your favorite brand of coffee and ice cream in his kitchen.

The bathroom yielded mixed results. On the plus side, no makeup case. No perfume. No bubble bath. No women's razor. Certainly not one in hot pink.

Damn right I knew what I was doing when I picked those post-it notes.

There is an extra toothbrush, however. A purple toothbrush. It has to be hers. Josh wouldn't use a purple toothbrush if it registered to vote and made a substantive monetary contribution to the DNC.

That doesn't prove much of anything. After all, a toothbrush is exactly the sort of thing you don't worry about getting back after the breakup.

Yes, it does worry me that I've been standing here for five minutes pondering the significance of Amy Gardner's toothbrush.

"Donna, what are you doing?"

Busted.

Damn.

I probably should have closed the door before I started going through Josh's medicine cabinet.

When in doubt, go on the offensive.

"Collecting evidence," I reply, practically poking Josh in the eye with his girlfriend's toothbrush.

Did I mention the fact that he's practically in my face? And that he looks good?

Sloppy, but good.

What with the stop at Starbucks, it took me more than fifty minutes to get here. I am so low on my boss' list of priorities that he waited to shower until the very last minute. His hair is still wet, he's barefoot, and he's wearing a black t-shirt and an old pair of sweatpants.

He is so damn hot.

Seriously, I hardly know where to start: Josh with wet hair? It gives him this whole mischievous little boy look, like he got caught playing in the rain when he was supposed to be doing his homework. The t-shirt is threadbare and extremely tight, showing off his arms to perfection.

Josh's arms are one of DC's greatest treasures. You think people come here in spring to see the cherry blossoms? Hell, no. Tourists flock to Washington every spring to enjoy Joshua Lyman Jogging Season.

The sweatpants are a disappointment, of course---not only do they hide the legs, they're much too bulky. This will hurt the tourist trade since Josh's arms aren't his only superior assets.

But, oh, the scent of him more than makes up for any other disappointments—clean and fresh from the shower; the aroma is pure, unadulterated Josh.

Beds are highly overrated. I should just push him down onto the tile floor and have my way with him.

It's especially hard to resist when he looks all confused like that. His forehead is all crinkled up, and he's staring at me as though he has no idea what I'm talking about.

Good. I want him off balance. That way he's less likely to remember that I'm the one at fault here.

"This," I wave the toothbrush again, "is evidence. It proves what I have long suspected."

"And what is that?"

"There *is * no Amy. Amy does not exist."

"What the hell are you talking about? Of course Amy exists. You *know * Amy."

"When I said she didn't exist, I didn't mean she isn't real."

Does he have to smile? Does his face have to rearrange itself into dimples and sparkling eyes and lips that obviously need to become acquainted with my mouth?

"Oh, we're in the Land of Donnatella Logic. My favorite vacation spot."

"What I meant was that while Amy Gardner certainly is real, she does not exist as your girlfriend. There is no such person as Josh's girlfriend. This toothbrush says as much."

He steps back, crosses his arms and leans against the door frame.

"You're having conversations with inanimate objects now?"

"What I mean is that, to a careful observer, this toothbrush reveals quite a bit."

"Such as?"

"It's feminine. It must be hers."

"Notice me not denying that my girlfriend keeps a toothbrush in my apartment."

"An old toothbrush. Practically buried in the back of your medicine cabinet."

"Notice me not asking why you're examining the contents of my medicine cabinet."

Yeah, I'm ignoring that one for now. Seeing as how I have no defense and all.

THE END

10.23.04