You just scored some Coachella tickets from your best friend and ask me
if I want to go with you. I respond by taking off my thrift store shirt. I tell
you that undergarments are a symbol of the patriarchy and you agree. You
begin kissing my neck and whisper, "I want to hear you moan like Bjork
singing Joga." We fuck so hard that your carefully gelled hair falls down
into your eyes, and I think you look a little bit like Brian Wilson in his
younger days.