Usually, I keep hard candy within reach for a quick sugar high -- and enough energy to get to a kitchen or restaurant for sustenance more long-lasting than butterscotch balls. The problem here I think is that my body doesn't speak loudly enough. Shouldn't it say something like, "HEY, TIME TO EAT!" before it's on the verge of extinction? I don't know. Maybe it's my hearing. Sometimes I don't catch my body in time and it brings down my brain. I try to black out in safe places (a couch, a bed) so my material self isn't too badly bruised by its incoherence.

Extreme mental confusion causes the same physical consequence. Some while ago, an acquaintance had a motorcycle accident. At the hospital police wanted to question me about the circumstance of his injuries. Unfortunately, my friend had been riding on a revoked driver's license. Uncertain what edit of reality would keep him out of trouble, whenever the trooper questioned me I fainted. Eventually, he (and a few disgruntled orderlies) got tired of watching me hit the floor, and they all went away. By that time, I looked only slightly better than my friend, and the hospital was going through their legal papers to see if they were protected against suits from suddenly falling bodies.

My spouse's reaction to stress, on the other hand, is to say about fifteen things more or less at once, including a few contradictory commands, several rapid-fire questions, and a stream of mutually-exclusive suggestions on possible courses of action. My reaction to all this is nearly universally to faint. Of course. You don't want us around in an emergency.

One unclear day, I tripped over the cat and fell into our concrete steps, landing on my elbow. Crying out from the pain and a little startled by the sudden flow of blood, I wavered as my spouse rushed to the scene. "Should I call the doctor?" "Want to go to the hospital?" "[expletive deleted]! Why don't you watch where you're going?" "Should I get bandaids?" "Where am I supposed to put pressure?" "Want to go in the house?" "It needs a tourniquet." "Do you think it's broken?" "You need to lie down." No problem. When I came to everything was much better. A neighbor was calming my woeful spouse and in the ensuing peace I managed to clean the cut and wrap my elbow. It may hurt occasionally but my spouse has recovered almost completely.

The cat, aptly named "Monster," was and is to this day fine, still contentedly intent on seeking loving ways to maim or kill me. I've noticed that cats never panic or collapse and conclude they're higher life forms. After the cataclysmic event that annihilates us unconsciously hysterical homo non sapiens from the planet, Monster will emerge unfazed and indifferent with a mole in his mouth. In a month or two he may notice I'm not around much anymore.