Drinking too little
Not rushing the field
Not touching the fire
Professing your love to that ’12 not hard enough
Waking up without a hazy memory of scaling the bonfire, finding a golden oil lamp, summoning a genie named Ron Clocks who, upon waking from his multi-millenial slumber, agrees to grant you three wishes. You immediately wish for infinite wishes. In a matter of hours, you stand atop the dark tower at the nexus of the infinite multiverses. You rule all that Is and Ever Was and Ever Will Be. But it is lonely being God. The one thing you don’t have is something to fill the empty space in your almighty heart. So you wish for that ’12 to sex. You sex.