I’m not actually sure. My knees are weak, and my arms are jello. My heart is pounding with an eager excitement that battles the brink of exhaustion. I could both pass out again or float away at a moment’s notice.
Abusing my unseen energy bar was a terrible idea, but I’ll recover. I’ll sell something, just to make sure I know how to, then I’ll buy some food. That’s how you recover energy in-game, so I’m sure it will fix me up fully in real life. I would cook at home since seeds aren’t as expensive as meals…but until I upgrade my house, I don’t have a kitchen.
Even though I couldpotentially rough it with a campfire and some sturdy poking sticks, I frankly do not trust myself around an open flame. Assuming I could create an open flame. As it stands, the world is still soggy, and even without that handicap, I was not qualified to light the gas stove at Hardee’s.
Because of the breaking down in tears and stuff.
When rough, calloused fingers snap in my face, I startle out of my thoughts to find Samson’s scowl. He grumbles, “I asked you a question.”
I blink. Then I beam, stupidly. “I forgot it.”
He heaves a sigh.
Because he just doesn’tunderstand.
I am delirious with joy. I’m hyped on an adrenaline rush spiked with dopamine and doused in serotonin that cancels out embarrassment.
There is so much to do. And I am free to do all of it without fear the real world will drag me away into its cold, spindly clutches. My lifelong ambition of never logging out has come true.
Samson’s big hand wraps around my upper arm as he drags me to my feet. I teeter, just managing to stay steady, when he releases me.
“There,” he mutters. “Now leave. And don’t forget to pick up the tool you dropped outside.”
Oh, Samson, you grumpy darling, you.
Saluting before I can tell myself not to, I chirp, “’Kay! See you again soon, neighbor.”
“Please don’t.”
He’ll learn to love me.
Merrily, I trot to the door, stopping short when my attention catches on a mirror by a hutch filled with lovely stacks of generic dishes.
My smile melts off my naturally pouting lips. They’re plump and pink, and a little chapped, but I guess hardly drinking water or eating for days would do that to even the cutest lips.
There are no two ways about it. I am a disgusting mess. There’s a twig. In my hair. Dirt smudges litter my khaki dress, which is coated in dust.
I have never seen someone more filthy.
Yet. I amadorable.
Clapping my hands to my soft, round, freckled cheeks, I stare into my copper eyes. They shine, practically glimmering.
I am actually, actively, socute.
Exactly like a plump mourning dove. Innocent. Sweet. Dear.
Wow.
Wow.
This dirty dress does nothing for my figure, but—um—I have one? And it’s a defined hourglass?
I have never once considered myself feminine, but here I am, beautiful and dainty. Screw the stick in my golden waves, Ihavegolden waves. They fall around my face to graze my shoulders in gentle ripples.
“That’s me?” I gasp, looking back at Samson while I point at the mirror. “That’s really me?”
Disturbed, he watches me for several moments, then exhales a curse. “You hit your head, didn’t you?”
