And then, we hear, as does Samantha, through this house's apparently paper-thin walls, her parents canoodling. And I can't imagine any drought, no matter how severe, prompting me to think to myself, "Well, at least someone's doing it" as I hear my parents having sex. My body's natural defence mechanism would ensure that the sound of the vomiting drowned out the sound of mom and pop copulating, of that I am damn sure. It is entirely possible, though, that in order to escape the sounds of my parents rutting, I might go out to the garage to grab my bike and go for a ride. Minus the musical accompaniment and cheesy voiceover about how when the right person comes along, I will be ready, of course.