I'd like to share a story with you.

Over the weekend, I ran home to Cincinnati to have a little bonding time with my mother. And when she started snoring in front of the tube around 9:30 p.m., I departed for Highland, the previously mentioned coffeehouse I frequent whilst home.

The regulars were there - Chico, the resident 5'2" Chilean stoner, Sean, an ex with a mohawk, Russ, a balding IT guy, Will, a drummer and name dropper, Dale, a self-deprecating yet loveable plump man, and more. I walked in on a conversation that began with Russ letting us know it was a particularly bad idea to shop for domain names while drinking.

"I now own the name illblessyourboobs.com," he smirked, all of us erupting into laughter. "It's hosted by Google."

Couple his domain name with the fact that he's an ordained minister (via that website where you fill out a questionnaire for a half hour and get a print-out reverend certificate) and you get a group of dorky people laughing at the realization that technically, yes, Russ could bless your boobs. Dot com.

And then he offered us all e-mail addresses via his website. Sticking with the religious theme, Will (being Jewish) went with therabbi@illblessyourboobs.com. Dale went with theprophet@illblessyourboobs.com. And, dear readers, ready for all your sacrificial needs, I can now be reached at thevirgin@illblessyourboobs.com.

Oh, but did the night end there? Of course not!

Two in the morning neared. My friends, the nerds, the geeks, the IT dorks, the saxophone players, the goth geeks, the kids playing chess, they were all leaving Highland to randomly gamble at Argosy Casino in the middle of the night. I was left behind with my book, waiting for the others to clear out so that I and the barman could hypothetically smoke hypothetical cigarettes in a hypothetically nonsmoking establishment after it had hypothetically closed for business. Before the barman could lock the front doors, two very different people stumbled in.

At 6'5" and well over 200 lbs, the man I later learned was named Dave had car grease stains well ingrained into his calloused hands. He wore a black bandana tied around his head Rambo-style, his black hair longish and at his shoulders. With wire rimmed glasses and a hole-ridden black shirt, it seemed as if he and his friend did not match. His friend William wore a polo shirt, clean khakis, a baseball cap, was 5'5", weighed less than half of the other. A motley crew indeed.

And they were drunk as skunks. They wandered into Highland with the intention of buying two six packs off of the bar and nearly fell on to my table as they stumbled into it. Dave asked to show me, "pick-chuhs of my Choppah," asking if he'd ever have the chance to ride with me. No, Dave. No you will not. So he gave me the pick-chuh of the motorcycle, dear big drunk man that he was.

And his friend Will asked what I was reading.

"The Corrections," I answered.

"The correctional facility? Girl, you're trouble!" William roared into an empty Highland.

"No, it's a book called the Corrections," I corrected, itching to whip out my hypothetical cigarette.

"What's yer major?" William asked, nodding his head as he said it, that nod boys do at (but not to or with, but at) people while asking questions.

"I don't have a major," I replied. "I graduated nearly two years ago."

"Then whatchyareadin' fer?!" William cried, mouth wide, eyes completely amused that people actually read..For..Fun?! No way, man! No way!

Yes way.

There's no moral to this story. William and Dave were eventually kicked out with their six packs of beer and the barman and I hypothetically smoked hypothetical cigarettes in a nonsmoking establishment after hypothetical closing time.

But now I've got a new e-mail address given to me under the dorkiest of circumstances. . . And a pick-chuh of a Choppah.