That's not what I think it is, is it?

Oh snap, it is.

There, on the left side of my neck, equidistant between my jawline and my shoulder, quite visible to the world, a small reddish, purplish, no-bigger-than-a-nickel "love bite."

How could this be? It's been days. Like, at least four days. And it's not just curious, it's impossible, for I inspect on a bi-hourly basis every square centimeter of my face, neck, front-side, back-side, legs, feet, hands and anywhere else I can reach with either a fingertip of Oil of Olay Regenerist or a handful of Mistral melon-pear-olive-oil body salve. In short, I am the most vain individual you'll probably ever come across; I look at myself not just frequently but meticulously -- there is just no way this seemingly fresh neck bruise was there yesterday, the day before, or the day before that. No way.

My first reaction, then, was to look down at the sweet dollop of manhood sitting between my feet - we do sleep together every night, after all - but the "don't look at me, sister" expression he shot me told me immediately he wasn't the culprit.

Could it be then, as I've always suspected, that the concept laid out in the Nightmare on Elm Street series is more rooted in reality than we think? Do the events that transpire in our dreams actually take place? Was I really Monica Bellucci's date to the Cartier Spring Party in Rome? Did we really polish off that 1984 bottle of Dom and sneak into a dark corner of the Galleria Nazionale to discuss what a mistake it would be for the EU to lift its arms embargo against China and how sad it was to see Cartier recklessly abandon elegance for a more vulgar modern opulence? Did I really make her laugh at my irreverent jokes about the Middle East and did she really wipe that bit of strawberry puree off my...well, you get the picture.

Hoping this was the case, I looked once again to the sage now lying on his back with all four paws bent marionette-style on the bathmat. The "you're my Mommy, you're supposed to be smarter than this" look in his eyes, unfortunately, put that delicious theory to rest.

My last resort, as always, was to turn to Wikipedia.

According to our friend at Wiki, at some point between yesterday and this morning, I must have either engaged in an aggressive makeout session, been the victim of an attempted strangulation (though since my mark doesn't resemble a thumbprint, it's unlikely) or played a mean concerto on a stringed instrument.

I'll have to wait until I return home for official confirmation, but considering how peculiarly my social life is playing out lately, I'm betting I got hot-and-heavy with a violin somewhere on M Street between 14th and ConnAve and just don't remember it.