Dear Katie Vincent, Having lived in a dorm with thick walls and floors for two years, I was utterly naive about the amount of sex girls in Manhattan have, but you, my dear friend, have made that information so perfectly clear to me. In the early days, I came to anxiously anticipate Thursday nights. After the bars closed down, I would hear you tromp on your heels like an angry school girl into your room, followed by someone with a stronger and yet softer step. Then, like a gift from God falling straight out of heaven above, I would hear a big jump on the bed, and then, Katie, I listened to the methodic mattress mambo ensue directly above my head for a whole five minutes until finally, it came to with a passionate quiver in the floorboards. As I lay in my bed trying to fall asleep, I found it to be an altogether illuminating auditory experience. As the time (and your bed springs) wore on, you seemed to have grown past that childish sexual decadence into a once at night and then once in the morning kind of woman -- good for you! Your deep, melodic moaning has now become audible through the approximate two feet of wood and plaster that separate our bedrooms, and I'll be damned if I can't even hear the faint sound of angelic applause after every time the squeaking ceases. Way to go!

P.S. Katie, even though I know he doesn't like it, I think its good that you take a shower after every time. I mean, after all, who really wants that stuff all over themselves anyway? You go girl.