24 years, now. Isn't that something? Well, to me it is I guess. It doesn't seem like nearly a quarter of a century. It feels more like a couple of hazy, drunken years -- yet at the same time a thousand years -- a hundred lifetimes back. I had friends in those days. A few of us used to get together every week to watch the latest episode of The Sopranos. One of us had a satellite dish connection with HBO. We were impressionable young men. The Sopranos was very compelling to impressionable young men of that day. Can I use that as an excuse for my extreme arousal at Melfi getting raped in her ripped open tights on an industrial staircase, not even realising until Cauldron mentioned it a few years ago that that was a primary catalyst to ignite my latent psychopathy of my rape fetish that would persist for decades? I can and I will. I regret nothing. Not even the actual rapes of real women.