For my birthday one year, my friends surprised me by hiring someone to fly a plane into a building. When they told me to meet them at the building’s address at 7PM on Tuesday, I assumed they were taking me to dinner there. They jumped out of their cab just as the plane tore through the top half of the building and it crumbled into itself. People on the street screamed. “Surprise!” My friends yelled. They looked happy. The dust had not yet begun to settle when a man hundreds of feet tall emerged from the wreckage, wearing only a garage-sized pair of cut-off jeans, whose pockets hung out the legs because they hadn’t been altered appropriately. He began doing a sexy dance. I asked my friends why they had hired a giant male dancer when they know I like women. They looked angry. They told me the purpose of the man was not to be provocative.