[Private]
Eighty. I'd be lucky to make it to seventy-five, actually. I think the insides of my lungs resemble cinder. I suppose that I could but lets simply hope you're either able to get it sorted yourself or that it simply doesn't happen, before we have to even imagine you being so horribly stuck, that we've got to seek out help and I'm running about with you in a tiny jar like some sort of glowy or fluttery insect.
No, you're brilliant, I love you, and I'm still chuffed to bits that we're married. That's why we're going to cuddle eachother senseless and pass out from cuddle overload. Probably while watching incredibly cheesy b-movies, in black and white, with aliens and horribleness. Such as...Plan 9 From Outer Space.