I'm allergic to power, or as we know it; diseases. My body kicks it in the groin like Meryl did, on her wedding night, realizing her husband's um... shortcomings.

As for ownership of said body, my new adoptive 'family' didn't want a daughter.

They were in the market for a meat locker on legs for their actual frail son. So like any sane person, I decided to take matters into my own hands; or rather, legs.

Imagine my surprise when, after barely dodging the organ vultures, said frail son came along, flirting with me like he's a professional in charming the pants off of women, and (don’t you dare let him know THIS) my pants feel a little threatened, in a weirdly flattering way.

I think I might have to start wearing a chastity belt at this rate. Either that or investing in some industrial-grade anti-charisma spray.

Damn it. Pick one, you greedy bastard! You want my heart figuratively or literally?!