Last winter I was stone sober at a party for a school I didn’t attend, where a guy trying to screw me asked, “What’s your favorite sensation?” I responded seriously, even though this highfalutin dope clearly thought he was the star actor in a play he wrote on the toilet.

I said, “You know the King Tut ride at the carnival that comes to town? The big pendulum boat? I love that little anti-gravity nausea spike when you hover above your seat.” The answer rolled off my tongue, because I’d thought about it at length in the past. He took an economy-sized gulp of his drink and snapped his head away. This disturbed the molecules, and the stench of rum slithered into my nostrils. Irritation warmed me. “Hey, we should co-star in a movie where we’re telepathic superheroes,” I thought forcefully into the back of his head. He didn’t respond.

I left, and walked four miles to Chinatown where I had a bowl of 30 dollar shark fin soup. No one from that party ever contacted me again.