I scowl with frustration at myself in the mirror.

Damn my hair--it looks like a tumbleweed on steroids, only not as manageable. I look at my roommate, the beautiful Katherine Kavanagh. Only she's not so beautiful now. Now she's in bed, sick as a pig.

Hidden under the blankets, there seems to be an abundance of her. She's sweating more than Rosie O'Donnell's upper lip. Writhing in discomfort, as opposed to datcomfort. Her moaning sounds are heartbreaking.

How can I stay mad at her?

Poor baby.

Somehow she talked me into interviewing some super-duper, wowie-zowie mega-industrialist for the student feminist newspaper, Mein Kunt. It's an interview she should be doing, but, like I said, she's sickiepoo. I know, because I can see her contortionating under the blankets. Her eyes are rolling back in their sockets like a possessed Linda Blair in The Exorcist, only with smaller breasts. She's my bestest, dearest friend.

God, I hate her.

"Goodbye," I tell her.

"Goodbye," she tells me.

"Goodbye," says a voice from under her blanket.

"Holy fudge!" I say.

Only I don't say fudge.

Christian Grey is the Head Hookah of Grey Enterprises Holdings & Fish Market, Inc. I make it to his headquarters with enough time for a quick stop at Taco Bell. I'm still wiping off the special taco sauce when I walk into the lobby of GREY HOUSE, his 69 story office building.

I'm greeted by Olivia Spade, a young blonde intern seated behind a solid sandstone desk. She's beautiful, in an ugly kind of way.

"And you are..." she asks me.

"Anastasia Steele," I tell her.

"And this concerns..."

"I'm here to see Mr. Grey."

"Can I ask you a personal question, Ms. Steele?" she says, leaning forward confidentially.

"Of course," I tell her.

"Where did you buy your little ensemble?"

"Oh, the Puke Brothers," I tell her. "Why? Do you like it?"

"No, I just want to make sure I don't shop there by mistake."

My confidence immediately deflates, although, to tell the truth, I don't know what it would be like flated.

"Can I get you something?"

"Do you have any Taco Bell?"

As it turns out, they don't. I make do with what I find between the cushions on the couch I'm sitting on. Finally...

"Mr. Grey will see you now," Olivia tells me, and holds the door to Mr. Grey's office open for me. "Do go through."

I get up, and smooth the wrinkles from my skirt, just as a tall, elegantly dressed African-American gentleman exits.

OMG! It's President Obama! He's holding a shiny new penny in one hand and wiping away tears with the other.

He's crying?

Once he takes the money out of my wallet, redistributing my fair share to Olivia, he feels much better. He even gives me a smile, his dark eyes crinkling at the corners.

I look.

He barely left me enough for an Enchirito.

"You don't need to knock," Olivia tells me, counting her cash. "Just go in."

As I walk past, the door closes behind me, catching the heel of my left foot. I stumble forward, hitting my head on a low beam. Ow! I put one hand behind my head, rubbing it gingerly, and the other forward to steady myself, accidentally placing it on a wood-burning iron stove. Hot! I quickly remove my hand from the scalding metal, lift it to my mouth, and blow on it. I shuffle backward, and back into a door with a "Wet Paint" sign on it. Aw, nuts! My navy-blue jacket is ruined! As I step forward, the door opens behind me, and an ironing board falls, hitting me on the top of my head. I stumble forward, needing air. I'm at an open window, still blowing on my burning palm, while my other hand rests on the windowsill, keeping me balanced. The window falls down hard on my one good appendage--Yikes!--crushing it and trapping it at the same time. I have to use some force to pull it out, and the momentum spins me around making me fall face-first into a wedding cake. Yum! Unable to see, I stumble around deliciously and step right into a bear trap.

Ouch!

I'm such a nordberg.

I hope I didn't embarrass myself.

"Nonsense," Christian Grey says, opening the jaws to the trap. "I barely noticed."

When my eyes finally focus, I can see that the great Mr. Grey is pretty young for an old guy. And pretty good-looking to boot. He sees me seeing him.

"Miss Kavanagh is indisposed," I sputter, "so she sent me. I hope you don't mind."

"And you are..."

"Anastasia Steele."

"And this concerns..."

"I have some questions, Mr. Grey."

I smooth a stray lock of hair behind my ear.

"I thought you might," he says, deadpan, as opposed to livebucket.

"You're very young to have amassed such an empire. To what do you owe your success?" I ask him.

“Before every business deal," he confides in me, confidingly, "I stick a shiny new penny up my arse. And then, just before the meeting is to begin, I go to the bathroom and take it out. When I meet my opponent, I give him that penny, telling him it's for luck. That way, when we're negotiating, I can never take him seriously knowing that he's handling a penny that's been stuck up my bum."

I was amazed at his business acumen. I look at him. He holds my gaze steadily, impassive. My heartbeat quickens. My face flushes. My nose runs. I quickly catch it and return it to its original position on my face.

Why does he have such an unnerving effect on me? His overwhelming good looks? The way his eyes blaze at me? The smell of his cologne?

Mmm… eau de ratatouille.

"And," I continue, "once you've beaten your opponent in a bitter beetle business battle, what do you do to, ah, chill out?"

"Chill out?" he says, lifting one eyebrow. "Well, to chill out--as you put it--I climb with the sherpas on Mount Everest. I run with the Tarahumara in Mexico. I watch Oprah reruns with Stedman. I'm a very wealthy man, Miss Steele, and money gives me class, a lot of class," he says, and blows his nose into the sleeve of my navy-blue jacket to punctuate his point.

There's a knock on the door and Olivia enters.

"Mr. Grey, forgive me for interrupting, but your next meeting is in two minutes."

"We're not finished here, Andrea."

"Olivia."

"Don’t ever correct me, Andrea. Please cancel my next appointment."

"Very well, Mr. Grey," Olivia, I mean Andrea, says, and then exits, not letting the door hit her where the good Lord split her.

Crap, crap, and double crap!

Where's he going with all this?

"I'd better leave," I tell him. "I don't want to keep you from anything."

He steeples his fingers in front of his mouth, and balances himself on one leg.

"Plus, I do have a long drive," I continue, continuing.

He walks me to the door, still on one leg.

"We have an excellent internship program here," he tells me. Why is he telling me this? Is he offering me a job? "We can always use a good woman around here who knows her way around a coffee pot."

"Oh, I'll bear that in mind," I murmur. "Do you know where the nearest Taco Bell is?"

"Out there," he says, and points out of his office and toward the street. I'm surprised when he follows me out and walks me to the elevator.

"Anastasia," he says as a farewell.

"Christian," I reply.

"Please," he tells me, "call me Mr. Grey."

And, mercifully, the elevator door closes.

On my nose.