I go back in time to critique my own method of jerking off. When I arrive at 1992, I cringe at the flamboyancy of my own jerk-off moves. I have taken, it seems, to wearing a fringed cape and running around my room in front of the mirror while jerking off, and playing air guitar with the other hand, to achieve the overall effect of someone wailing on a particularly sweet axe. I take my glasses off and shake my head: "No, no, no. This won't do at all. We're going to have to start from scratch." The first thing I change is the music playing, which is how past-me knows it's really me.