The guiltiest you'll ever feel:

You're sitting in his bedroom. He's on his bed, leaning against the wall, and seemingly engrossed in Burnout 3. You're perching cross-legged in a swivel chair. You've got his guitar on your lap, and you absentmindedly pluck the strings and attempt to mimic the hand positions of the chord poster on his wall.

You two sit there for a couple of hours. You talk the whole while about things like abortion and war, homosexuality and evolution, sin and sex. Your opinions never seem to meet; you can understand his point of view, but you don't agree with it. He doesn't really seem to be listening to your side, which is okay, because you're kind of bored and half-assed in your arguments.

Suddenly, he pauses the game, and he looks straight at you.

"Allison?" he asks tentatively. "I just wanted to say that this is really nice. It's been a long time since I've debated someone like this. And with you, it's strange, because I don't get so defensive when I talk about these kinds of topics with you."

He pauses. "I just like this deep conversation. It's...stimulating."

He doesn't know it, but this whole discussion has been frustratingly unstimulating for you. It's his orations, not a debate. You're not at the same level intellectually; he's a science/math kid, you're an English/history kid. Your values aren't the same.

He likes this conversation; he thinks it's deep and stimulating. You're...well, you're bored out of your skull. You're only halfway paying attention.

To be totally truthful, you've spent the time realizing that you'll never be properly able to play a guitar. Your hands are too small.