I vaguely recall stumbling out of bed last night and clawing around in my closet until I found my 1993 Discman, which had a Sylvia Browne lecture in it. Hardly what I wanted jammed into my ears at 3:00 in the morning. I woke up 3 hours later with the foam headphones shoved up my nose and in my mouth, none the wiser on the subject of contacting my spirit guide or exploring my past lives.
And I've just been told by a 29 year-old virgin that "to be honest," he "just doesn't get me", and that talking with me on AIM is not unlike conversing with "a cardboard box." OH REALLY, 29 YEAR-OLD VIRGIN. I was going to deflower you for the novelty of it, but you can go fuck your Star Wars action figures now for all I care.