You've lost three and a half pounds since I saw you last. There is a drop of grease on your left pant leg from your breakfast this morning. Your hair is overdue for a trim. The woman who gave me my coffee this morning is pregnant, but does not know it yet. She's also quite allergic to lemongrass. And you are still not entirely happy with me for allowing you to believe that I was dead. Are we quite finished with this game?