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"What does existential dread feel like?" I could feel myself being pulled into her trap. I honestly wasn't sure what to say. "Well, how do you mean?" I knew it wouldn't fly. This charade wasn't going to last very long. She was attractive -- of course -- but a little too wily for my tastes. Not that I wasn't actually a philosophy professor. Just that I wasn't a very good one. I could usually fake it with the best of them. But beyond Montaigne, I was for shit. She grew tired of waiting. "Well, what about old philosophy? The ancient Greeks. The B.C. era." "Debbie -- if I may call you that -- it's really better to say B.C.E., to be honest with you." Maybe this would keep her off the trail, and it probably put me in a better, more flattering light. Later that night, as I was plugging her with quaaludes, Machiavellian misogyny, and non-tenured professorial tenderloin, I sensed that even though she may have trouble expressing her thoughts on existentialism (at such a young age), the dread part...well, she could put her finger on that one. At least judging by the way she recoiled from a post-coital caress from the warm mitt of yours truly.