I hated it. I kind of liked it. My hand was shaking. “Oh yeah, so is mine!” said my friend (still), giving her own casual flex; “You want to go again?” I was good. But you know what? I was thinking about it. I’m still thinking about it. I’m thinking about it at parties, or as a Love Island drinking game. It’s kind of like shrooms. Once you do it, the world has a different tingle. My fingers are haunted by ghostly vibrations, though my hands stopped shaking after a few minutes. The couch-crashing friend, however, has white hot triangle bangs and grew up grabbing electric fences at farms in Nebraska, not caring if she pissed her pants. She wears enough metal rings to power a telephone pole, and she absolutely did not take them off for the game, which she called “cute.”