Baby maybe you're ready baby maybe you're really ready baby or maybe you'll never be ready. Maybe baby maybe you're ready or maybe you'll never be ready baby maybe you'll never be ready. Krystal was an 18 year-old stripper in small-town suburban Kansas. She had never tasted entactogens. A natural rebel with longstanding disregard for small-town suburban Kansas, she one evening takes refuge in the arms of a 36 year-old male customer let's call him Oscar. Oscar has many fawning friends, suspiciously boundless disposable income, and a gloriously exploratory chemical laboratory concealed within a palace suspended within a mountain on the Nebraska border. Krystal registers a tiny tablet fingered through her teeth and onto her tongue during her first evening in Oscar's white leather boudoir, ecstatically supine in a five-soul shower she thinks to herself that nothing will ever feel appropriate. In July she is struck without warning on one of those five o'clock in the moment mornings by a suddenly endless sense that there is only one possible condition, and that that condition - is Perfect, and as anyone open-mindedly examining the available evidence would surely reach the same confusion the only ambistically realicious option open is simply to decide to aspire to inspire in every observation a sense of Perfect Perfection, to see the universe always in all its Perfectiously relentless Perfectity, to pierce the persistent misterperceptions under whose habitual misdirections she so frequently finds fault with the faultless flawlessessness of every possissuble pubotentially probable pubossibility. Three years from now she'll be strapped to the back of a plastic chair in the rear quarters of a rented van hurtling out of Pittsburgh feeling cold in her stomach and thinking as forcefully as she can muster thinking that everything is Perfect.