My psychiatrist, Ellen, got me a job at a retirement home once. It was quite a stroke of luck that she was there to vouch for me because I am cursed with severe social anxiety that prohibits me from leaving the house without wearing a burka. That makes it very difficult to get a job. Due to the burka the administrators at the retirement home decided to put me in the Alzheimer's ward on the basement floor so I would not disturb the self-aware residents that lived on the first and second floors. However, we did make occasional forays out of the windowless underworld--Wednesday was soft-serve day and one that day it was my job to wheel all the Alzheimer's patients up to the first floor so the kitchen staff could feed them soft-serve from their soft-serve machine. One of the patients, Bobby, was a 98-year-old veteran of the first world war, and was one of the few that didn't seem to realize or care that I was wearing a burka. (The administrators and I were both astounded at how even the deepest, most overwhelming dementia has no effect on once's ability to ostracize an adult man that wears a burka everywhere he goes.) I sat with him while he ate his soft-serve, and he would tell me stories from his life. He liked to talk about the girlfriends he had during the war. The stories were raunchy to the point of making me skeptical. If he was to be believed, he would sleep with a hundred women in the amount of time it would take me to work through a box of tissues. I learned very quickly to stay silent while he talked. If I questioned his story, he would launch into an abusive tirade peppered with expletives. I made the mistake of telling him once that I was a virgin. He ridiculed me endlessly about it. When he saw me bringing him his meals, he would scream, "Here comes the virgin!" And all the other residents would laugh at me. I hoped the Alzheimer's would eventually snatch that bit of knowledge away from him, but that damnable disease instead stripped him of everything but. It got to the point where he would just sit in his wheelchair and stare silently at the wall, twitching a bit. When his family visited he ignored them completely. But when I came into the room, the response was immediate--VIRGIN, he would scream, VIRGIN! He would wave an accusatory bone-thin finger under my nose--VIRGIN! VIRGIN! Finally he died. I stole his watch from his bedside and sold it at a pawnshop for enough money to buy 82 hearthstone booster packs, but that did not fill the hole that was left inside me. To this day I still miss him. Goodnight, Bobby. If I sleep with 1/100th the number of the women you did, I will consider myself a blessed man.