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Oh, MetaChat, your jeweled bosom heaves in the moonlight. End my suffering and yield your passion to me. I have dreamt of the moment I could get you alone for months on-end now. The scent of your hair, the feel of your breath on my neck as you lean over my shoulder to help me with my spreadsheets. It's too much for me to bear. I need you, MetaChat, to go on living. I also need ten (10) million US dollars of various, non-sequential denominations, or I feel I shall wither and fade away for the dearth of you, my dearest.