I think I have aids. I mean, I went to Darfur last week and met a fellow named Kunta. We shared a few glasses of wine and a few laughs, when he suggested we partake in a vigorous bout of anal sex. At first I was appauled, but Kunta was steadfast in his task of deflowering my anal cherry. Kunta stood and beat his chest. What the wanted was all too clear, I could see the lust in his eyes. He pinned me down and whispered ancient African mantras into my ear. His beard tickled my ear as I listened to hushed and incoherent phrases. His breath smelled of fine wine and I vaguely recall smelling garlic. I repressed most of it, just a blur of unprotected anal intercourse and intravenous methamphetamine use.