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Bon Mardi Gras, tout le monde.

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And I will do what I can to ensure those expectations are met.

I know you will.

You should know.

I'd like to think I should.

And here is where the conversation takes a rather confusing turn. We do this a lot.

At least I have a good excuse for not making any sense.

So do I.

Mine's better.

I'd say that's debatable.

You'd be wrong.

Prove it.

My hormones beat your buoyancy.

Considering the various causes of my buoyancy? I'm not so sure.

And here I'd assumed you were a one woman man. My mistake.

That's not what I meant.

I know, but you make it so easy.

I do? I should likely work on that, then.

Yes, you do.

I still win.

You still haven't proven to me that you are correct, Tess.

What would you like, a doctor's report?

Oh, no. I'm not asking you to prove that.

My argument was that I am not convinced your excuse is better than mine. I do not doubt that yours is valid.

Then let me put it this way: At this point? My hormones beat everything, including your hormones.

But you still can't prove it.

...And this has to be the most bizarre argument we've ever had.

I'll send you a medical textbook and you can look it up yourself.

Not to mention you've got me to argue when I didn't want to. That certainly earns you a few points of your own.

Well, seeing as I'm not from this planet, how my hormones compare is a gray area, I'd say.

Indeed I have. And I consider that quite the achievement.

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