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 oh my god sickman ...  alice ...  i thought i was liane but i'm alice!  how
do you do this ...  you are weirding me out ...  but in a good way.  and oh
god, another fucking incredible story ...  with that brilliantly executed
spiral down into woman's hell you write like very few can, that i've seen
...  i'm exhausted baby ...  got home about an hour ago after, printed your
e-mail and took it into a hot bath with me ...  you got very moist ...  the
paper ...  and my pussy ...  no amount of bathing will change what you do
to me ...  i'm too tired to hide anything.  not good, probably.  god i just
have to go to bed but i had to tell you good night and i am completely
blown away by alice's story and by you.  i promise to get up very early,
get tanked on gallons of coffee (as we old 12-steppers tend to do) and
reply un-lazily to you ...  i have so much i want to ask you that i must
remember not to overstep my bounds ...  and remember who i'm talking to ...
i know you'll tell me exactly how much you want me to know when you want me
to know it.  if you ever do.  i promise never to lie to you or exaggerate.
and sickman?  i won't call you sir after reading alebeard's philosophy -
not until you tell me to - but you must sense by now the depth and
sincerity of my respect for you.  i am completely in love with your mind.
so if you're a kid in minnesota or an old guy with three wives and a
militia or something you can tell me and it won't matter a damn.  not to
me. not at this point.  not after reading yet another masterpiece you
scraped off the darkest corners of my subconscious and transformed into the
most cunt-thumping piece of literature ...  you are a genius at this. 
you're truly frighteningly great.  tell me you're all wrong for me, please.
please.