Look at your man. Now look at me. Now look at the ceiling because you’ve fainted from the very sight of my handsomeness. Now you’re waking up. You could look at me again, but do you risk fainting once more? Of course you do. You can’t help yourself. You faint again, realizing this is how you will die, in an endless cycle of swooning. I am not a murderer. But you couldn’t tell by looking at me.