All right, what you may find is you concentrate on hitting that little ball, the rest of the world just fades away — all your everyday, nagging concerns. The ticking of your biological clock. How you probably couldn’t afford that nice, new suede coat on a G-Woman’s salary. How you threw away a promising career in medicine to hunt aliens with a crackpot, albeit brilliant, partner. Getting into the heart of a global conspiracy. Your obscenely overdue triple-X bill. Oh, I… I’m sorry, Scully. Those last two problems are mine, not yours.