This must be a hangover, then . . .

Is everybody okay? Miles and the other kids? Stupid dart, I'm waking up in the middle of the plot . . .

Mr. Summers, I'm really sorry about borrowing your motorcycle, only there wasn't enough time and it wasn't safe to try and find you to ask permission and somebody had to warn Alison so she wasn't coming back blind and, um, I didn't crash it? I won't touch it ever again, I promise. I wouldn't've last night except I needed something that was fast enough to make me really hard to shoot at in case they shot at me, and that's the fastest thing here except the jet. Which I'm also absolutely not going to ever borrow.

Alison, I brought your car back--the guy at the gas station was really nice about letting me pass out in your back seat in the parking lot all night and I said when I paid for the gas that I'd try and get an autograph for him (he didn't know it was you last night, obviously, but he recognized me from TV, which is not something I ever thought I'd say and is very very weird) so, can he have one? His name is Mike, or at least that's what was on his nametag.

Kitty . . . I'm sorry I didn't try to find you. I mean, I know I wasn't supposed to, but that doesn't mean I don't feel lousy about it. Are you OK?

I'm going to get a very hot shower, a very large aspirin, and a very tall glass of water, and then I'm going to go downstairs and see if Dr. McCoy and Dr. Bartlet need help with anything. And I want to think about this idea I had this morning some more and see if it makes sense without the Seven Dwarves reenacting the hi-ho pickaxe mining scene on the inside of my skull.

I think I'm the only person in the world who can get two simultaneous hangovers. Well, except maybe telepaths, I guess. It isn't much fun.