( sickness is somehow made all the worse by not being able to really fix it; can't splint a fever, or sew up the flu. a bit back, tear had offered to remedy clarke's encroaching hangover through healing artes, but that just seemed like a waste of her talents. sometimes one really does have to lie in the bed they've made themselves, no matter how awful it is. )

Oh, weed wasn't that bad. No real hangover to speak of, just the crushing mortification of whatever I remembered saying. ( which is, tragically, most of it. some SAFE examples to speak of: )

I told Jade that his uniform was ugly, Rita that she looked like she was twelve, and Pratt that his soul was the color of fall leaves.