Short, tough, and sweet.

Sometimes, arguments with my man are like amputations with a Victorian barber-surgeon's Cleaver-knife with 20th century antiseptics in the middle of a raging battlefield: seriously overpowering situation, critical enough to get you on your toes (or knees), sharp enough to do away with the malignancy quickly, and healing enough to end issues with nary a scratch. Almost, at least, but still good.

God, how I love my man.