Hello, My Name is Self-Destruction. Nice to Meet You.

          "You look desperate for change."
          "What?"
          "I said, 'it's like your tiny, minuscule, pointless world is crumbling around you, and because your mind holds such a small and simple amount of real experiences, you simply don't know how to combat it.'"
          "Uhm... What?"
          "Your mind is bruised black and blue with the repetitious nature of this small and enclosed desert, and you're hitting a breaking point."
          "Have we met?"
          "Depends on how you define 'met.'"
          "Have we ever conducted a conversation with each other before, or is this our first interaction?"
          "That's not specific enough."
          I let out a long, tired, frustrated sigh which retained a special emphasis on frustrated as I attempted to openly convey my irritation with the person sitting on the other side of the eggshell-white table I sat at, alone, in the corner of the In-N-Out Burger.
          My new conversation partner seemed completely unabated by my rudeness and continued to stare at me, waiting for a response. I furrowed my eyebrows and spoke.
          "What's your name?"
          "David."
          "That's... a man's name."
          "Fine, Daisy then. Yours?"
          "David", I replied plainly. "Are you sure we haven't met?"

          'Meeting' a new person is a curious experience. It's also one that's difficult to put value on during the instant in which it's occurring. In the first few seconds during which you begin communicating with this new being, you don't calculate and decipher whether this entity that has entered your life is important or will further whatever set of goals you have deemed as important in your overarching lifelong development. No. Instead, in these first few seconds, you're simply looking at another human, engaging them at a very base level. Many times they don't move past this base level, Eg. You enter a bank on a blistering summer's day to make a deposit of a check that you have received from your place of work. Upon entering the bank you quickly notice a substantial line of twelve or so people all just as sweaty and wet and tired and disgusting as you are. You take your place in line and in a few moments another sweaty man walks into the bank and takes his place behind you. You notice the massive sweat-spots that have formulated(and now run rampant) themselves upon his baggy cotton heather-gray tee, origin points of which are located at his sternum, belly-button, and both of his deep armpits. You make eye-contact with the sweaty man and state, "too damn hot out, isn't it?" To which he vehemently concurs, ecstatic to have found someone empathetic to his temperturatic dilemma. For the remainder of the time both you spend in the bank, and for no discernible reason, neither of you make the attempt to speak to the other again.
          This 'meeting', and in extension, your relationship with this man does not develop any further. Aside from concluding that he was a particularly sweaty man, you in the end pass no real judgement on he who stood behind you and twelve other sweaty and annoyed individuals in the bank which you bi-weekly frequent. You don't view him as someone to manipulate, as someone who might be useful to you, as someone you need devote your brain's limbic system to. He's just someone you met, and as such he quickly falls into the dark recesses of your subconscious.
          By these standards, David... I would say yes, we have met.

          This is, roughly, what was explained to me by the Daisy character sitting across from me in the corner of the In-N-Out Burger with an eggshell-white table innocently separating the two of us.