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Being raised an atheist gives you something of a desire to find spirituality wherever you can. There is this part of the human brain, it seems, that just needs to believe in something. Perhaps it’s simply fear of death, perhaps it’s something more profound, but either way–it’s there.
It’s around Thursday when my best friend Bea decides to have a Victorian séance. “I think it’ll be fun,” she says. Bea defines the world in terms of ‘fun’ and ‘not fun’. She is the kind of girl who throws wilfully obtuse theme parties, such as a ‘Reproduction’ bash that involved vases of eggs and barricading the door to the college dorms with pink and red papier-mache. At the climactic moment of the party, she burst through the door and screamed, “I’VE BROKEN THE HYMEN!”