Thanks for the Rohypnol you slipped me almost two years ago at that Capitol Hill dance club. I don't know your name and never saw you again, so I can't really thank you in person. I suppose this will have to do. While I can't really remember the night of passion you had with me (that left you smiling as you left), I will always cherish the fond memories of the events that ensued. It was really fun to have legs so sore I couldn't walk for a week. And it was even more fun when the receptionist at my job demanded I make my shift when I called in sick to work. Things got better when the manager was cool enough about the situation to fire me for not making my shifts. A shout-out to all my coworkers who never called me or talked to me again. I enjoyed getting pneumonia shortly after you had your fun, puking up blood, and having to move back in with my parents at the age of 30. It got even better when I packed on 40 pounds. So here I am one and half years later: fat, alone, unemployable, and living with my parents! After all the fun I had going out that night, I'm set for a lifetime—so I don't really need to ever go out again. Boy, I must have been the best lay ever for you to go through all that trouble. I would imagine nothing is sexier to a man than an unconscious woman.

—Anonymous