“So, what’s your number?” he asked me with innocent eyes, contemplating a number low enough to render me virtuous but high enough to guarantee some skill. In other words, n - 1.      I sighed and looked at ceiling. The scene was all too familiar. This time however, I wasn’t with a graduate student. Or an engineer. I was with a DJ.      “One time, I wrote a C program to remove the voice from a sound file,” I said shyly as he leaned in and grazed my earlobe.      Suddenly, he pulled back with disappointment.      “I’m really sorry, but I have to go to my show,” he said as he stuffed his headphones into his backpack. “I’ll see you later.”      The door slammed in the distance.      I sighed and hung my head in shame. For I was embarking on the same destructive behavior, watching helplessly as my actions iterated miserably in a never-ending loop. Like recursion, a new romance temps with the promise of a memory address, such as the $user = “girlfriend”  string as...
 
 
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