I am uncertain, that is to say, I am dubious; extremely doubtful, as suspect and suspicious as a handful of apparently free candy from a foul smelling stranger, or the completely unsolicited offer of a ride home from the police.

All I want for Christmas is a girl at least as messed up as I am. And I'm totally, you know, willing to overlook various physical flaws or certain varied pick-n-mix deficits of moral character, even clinically diagnosed personality disorders in return for similar concessions from her side of the fence. Talking allegorically, of course.

Say. Has anyone told you. How beautiful? Well. Yeah. More than once I guess, more than probably. I think I may have, perhaps, retreaded the well worn rubber on that particular line a few too many times already. But! science! has already definitively shown that a omnivore at the point of near starvation will eat pretty much anything. This is exactly what I have been waiting for. The human mind, in extremis . Finally finding that one, special, wonderful person: scouring the mental wards for examples of the limited, finite capacity of the homo-sapient brain stretched far far beyond any previous credibly peer-reviewed breaking point and fallen irrevocably deep deep deep down into the murky bottomless pit of madness, malicious evil and despair. In that case, possibly, I could score. Maybe. It would be a fair throw of dice at least.

Let's go on a date! Set shit on fire. Go rob a grocery store. Do something interesting. They will write our names in the history books, I swear to god, or else we could just scratch them into the paint of the toilet cubicle ourselves. Either/or. It's all okay with me. Sure, I know you might have met a lot of idiots in your time but have you seen idiocy on such a grand scale as I can bring to the table, tell me truthful: have you ever in your life encountered such a blind and wilful ignorance as insanely ambitious as this is?

Dinner and a movie—and I really don't mind if you want to be Clyde, you can wear a suit and I can shave my legs wear a dress and be Bonnie. We'll bring machine guns to the restaurant. Kiss accidentally while eating a single incredibly long strand of spaghetti prepared especially by the chef. Go down in a hail of bullets and then stand back up on our feet again, but I seriously suggest we go to your place, my room is full of vermin.

Has anyone told you how?

Yeah.

I'm willing to bet they have.

Albert Hofmann, 102, \m/, your problem child grew up to be a well respected semiotic terrorist.