As kids, we used to run around the house with dad's pulse oximeter stuck on a finger to see how fast our hearts would go. Quit playing games with my heart (rate) would be what you'd call that. Love, right now, is reserved only for my neighbour and his free wi-fi that gets me download speeds of over fivefriggin'hundred kaybees per second. And the three-way-stop-cock-like-thingy the good doctor uses to drain pericardial fluid in that Downton Abbey episode. And the stupid person who thought I deserved a 44 out of 50 in the surgery test. At least I didn't drudge my Bailey & Love around all day for nothing.