I don't want any code. In fact, if you were to give me a code, I would throw myself into a fit of rage the likes of which Bruce Banner has never seen. No, neither my heart nor my mind are unstable. Rather the mere insinuation that another individual has some power over me, a strange and foreign power that allows one to give out a "code" as if to say, "Here little boy, take my charity as I spit upon you from my gold-plated horse" as you ride off into the sunset with some beautiful woman that would not give me so much as a second glance (unless she were to point out the "filth" of the city to her upper-class kinfolk). No, I don't need your charity. I don't want your charity. The fact that you would even consider it makes me sick to my stomach. Of course, if I were to get deathly ill from this, you probably would not even notice. After all, if I do not have a home or a dollar or anyone to care about (or to care for me), do I even exist? Perhaps you are wondering how I am typing this... Perhaps not. If you know the method of my writing, I salute you, brother, for you and I have both lived to see the effects of losing your soul and everything you own. If you do not know, you musn't ever learn. It is a tale so harrowing that Satan himself wet his pants as I told him this over a grande cappucino with caramel icing. We then played Battleship until he got fed up and shattered the pieces, sick of losing (and not realizing I could see his pieces through his sunglasses). I am now a mild mannered Jeweler in Queens.