That's what I called it as Sam met me at the door this morning, looking for some of that bad coffee I described so mouthwateringly yesterday and seeing if I wanted to tag along with him to church.
Me, wearing Lochlan's Journey t-shirt, one thigh-high sock with Chococat on it, no less, bedhead even Jesus might be ashamed of this morning and bite marks Sam simply can't see, mostly because they're on the insides of my legs but also because they are light.
Baby-heathen.
Baby-preacher. Don't want your Jesus-germs.
I can pray for your soul?
Double-down on that, would you? Where's Matt?
In the car.
Have fun.
Love you. He kisses my horrible morning-breath mouth. And for the record, Jesus is the perfect diet. He fills you up and keeps you content for a lifetime and then some.
Then I'm on the Lochlan diet. He does all that and more.
Idols, Bridget.
You know how I roll, Sam.
He smiles softly and the rain starts to drum on his head as I close the door in his face. Sorry, Jesus. I'm going back to bed.