n/d Pleaseee stop insisting there's no chance. There's only so much self-abuse my psyche can handle. I've already shared the saga of cat turd aromas, toilet bowl rim jobs, and the naughty escapades I engage in while your brilliant words loop through my ever-obsessed mind like a broken record. I apologize for the sheep pictures I've been sending; it's... well, it's even more embarrassing why sheep are always frolicking in the pastures of my mind. Here's the kicker, I haven't spilled the beans yet, but I grew up on a farm with more alone time than a hermit in the Himalayas. When my uncle would catch me sniffing the cows'... let's say, less fragrant ends, I'd dash to the sheep pen. It seemed like they could telepathically connect with my loneliness, or maybe they were just parched, but with a bit of encouragement, I could convince several sheep to, ahem, make me a man, if you catch my drift. OH NO, I can't believe I'm confessing this! Enough, my cousin is hollering that it's bubble bath time. Please don't get jealous; he's family, so it doesn't count, right?