What a difference a day makes

You know it has been a strange month when even your blog is feeling neglected; when the dashboard says “a while ago” instead of updating you as to whom has been reading in the last twenty four hours; when people have stopped bothering to click onto your page because they are sick of seeing the same ancient post front and centre AGAIN.

Well, yes, it has been a strange time.

Firstly, there has been work. Work that has multiplied itself and at the cusp of conclusion, has squared and quadrupled itself in order that I may feel impotent and ineffectual. Work that has been done in the wee small hours to oos and ahs of supportive and expectant people in another continent. My friends who held my head up when I was not strong enough to hold it alone.

There has been internal anguish when reminded of past mistakes and unfinished business has finally been exhausted and laid to rest. Difficult decisions made under dire and stressful situations many moons ago, brought to the fore, reminders of which were unwelcome but necessary and finally the nightmares are over and slowly the crying I hear in the next room has ceased, leaving an eerie silence in my closet where the skeletons used to live.

Then, for the finale to the month where emotions may be anything but bland: there was today. A day which I have had marked on th calendar for some time. A day which at the very thought of it’s occurrence, has struck both fear and hope in my heart simultaneously. A day during which someone else gets to explain to me their findings about my son and in doing so, possibly redefine him to the outside world forever. A day which will have me reassess every decision I have made regarding my discipline and lifestyle choices for my first-born, that I have ever made. A day on which my son is offered the opportunity to discover learning, to finally be able to interact with people on a “normal” level.

All I have to do is have him officially labelled and choose a medication which suits him, and Bob’s your mothers brother: Poetboy is “fixed”.

When I named Poetboy, my first baby boy, I chose carefully. There was no pot-luck or accidental decision, I didn’t pull a slip of paper out of a hat or flip a coin. I was looking for a name which reflected my wishes for his future, of strength and courage and freedom. My wishes. As we all impose the name we choose upon our offspring in an act of public announcement, as if to say: “this is who my child shall be”. So he was named after a famous revolutionary. A rebel with a cause.

Upon his birth, I knew that I had chosen well. His ruddy face and fierce determined expression spoke volumes and over the years I have watched him grow into his name. To make it his own as an extension of himself. I have heard it spoken in notoriety for not his Namesake’s accomplishments, but his own; I have heard him explain to people with great pride whom he is named after and intelligently explain the popular misconceptions and mispronunciations which (on hindsight) were inevitable. I have watched my little boy grow into a strong and brooding miniature man; old before his time, carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders. Occasionally I will see his radiant smile, a chink of light amongst his darkness and anxiety. He will light up the room, filling every inch of the large shoes he was named for.

And now. Now there is an appendage to his already huge name. Now his name will be surrounded by descriptive words: “Poetboy, the special needs kid” or “the boy with learning difficulties” or most likely “Poetboy – the one with ADHD”. Do I want him to carry this label? Do I have a choice?Is he ever going to carry this name and grow larger than it, so that it no longer matters what my intentions were when naming him, it no longer matters what diagnosis has been reached?

Whatever may be, it is time for this mama to reap what she has sown and watch her baby fight the good fight.

My rebel and his cause.

Back to Basics

Looney has dumped my phone into a basin full of ice cold water.

I am PISSED [off]. Words cannot express my rage, so silence has reigned for some two hours. Poor phone is drying itself infront of the fire, but I can see that we have a terminal problem here. I am busy thinking of fitting words for the Eulogy of a young and beloved Caucasian technological wonder. My phone!!! For fucks sake, could he not have chopped off my left leg instead?

Two days ago, Baby J picked every last key from my laptop. All have been replace except the G and the BACKSPACE , so I currently type as though my fingers were closely related to an epileptic homeboy with a bad case of the limps.

Himself is merrily being important and executive, in the Blue Mountains, so tonight I shall be home alone with four small children with no phone to clutch tightly in order that if something dire happened, I could call someone and tell them about it.

I will not be able to reassure myself with run-throughs of each terrifying scenario that may occur: in which large intruders overpower me and hold me hostage, but unbeknown to them I have dialled 000 and am code messaging the operator my location and predicament; or the stalker that I suspect I may have comes onto our property, when I hold my phone aloft and declare “The police are on their way” at which point he scarpers instead of doing something horrible to me; or the house catches fire in the middle of the night, I get all of the children out to safety, where I call the Brigade to come to put out said fire and bring me clothes because I sleep in the buff.

This is my comfort. In a world full of danger and uncertainty, I can always call someone for help. I am never entirely alone.

Only now I can’t and I am.

Thanks Looney.

So those of you that know me, beware. I am likely to be prowling the house tonight, awake through fear and caffeine induced hysteria. I will have the laptop fired up and should someone in the correct timezone receive an email typed by tapdancing epileptic fingers, that reads “FIRE”, then please bring clothes.

From Perth, In Love…

When I arrived in Perth with a Visa to be evidenced as “Resident”, I felt I knew the life I had chosen. I felt that whilst there was much more to explore, I knew this City, and I was happy to call her home.

Nearly a year later and I love this place.

I love the drive from our home to the City Centre. I love the cafes and bars – all echoing the eccelctic taste of the residents in our Suburb. I love the signs for Yoga and Capoeira lessons for children. I love the bookshops, full to bursting with ideas and prose. Always filled with people, drinking coffe and chatting excitedly.

The memories that we have made thus far visit me as I pass the cafe that I wandered into barefoot on Boxing day, to eat Breaskfast; the bar that I spent hours talking to my new-found Brother; the children’s school which they have made their own. I pass friends’ houses, the Buddhist Monastry, Pattiseries and Gymnasiums. I drink in the colours, the smells, the atmosphere. People here smile and talk in the street.

The sound of the pedestrian crossings that made me jump out my skin with fright when I first visited W.A, whirr in the background of the scenes through which I now pass and they are a comforting sound. I no longer challenge the right of way with The Cat [Buses] carving up the road, fearless and irrespective of Bus Lanes; they are the bosses here, I know that now, as they take people around the City free of charge; the road is their’s. The sightseeeing trams circle their way round Perth’s various points of interest, culminating at the Bell Tower; behind which are the Ferry Terminal from which we used to emerge when we lived in South Perth; the Lucky Shag pub where we played lots of Pool on a lazy day several years ago, the Vegetarian Indian restaurant where you pay whatever you feel…all overlooking the Swan. The beautiful Swan. A river by which Baby J took some of his first steps. Where we whiled away the days in the hot sushine last year, attending festivals, playing in the park, waking up with fresh coffee and drinking gallons of iced water, slathered in sunblock. The Swan, which provides the foreground for every famous picture of Perth City; that provides a reflection of every magnificent building in the CBD; that has barbeques along it’s perimeter so that you can eat, drink and be in awe of your surroundings whenever and however you please.
Entering the city itself, I love to walk the pedestrianized streets, linked by twee malls. I love the expensive coffee and the restaurant Strip along Hay Street. I love the convenience of the No Stopping Zones where I frequently drop Himself outside his huge Office building. I love the impressive buildings – the seemingly ancient old post office and Bankwest building, and I absolutely love that there is a fuck off great Skyscraper attatched to the back of one of them. A Skyscraper you can literally see for miles and miles. a Skyscraper with a funny shaped top so that I can tell where home is even when I am lost, 30K away. I love that Himself has his own section of the City. His own desk in his own office in his own building. I love that he can step out of the front door and be in the middle of it all. The bums, the crazies, the clean, clean streets. The knob heads in their convertibles with their Mail Order brides (who pulled out on me this morning). The young guns with their Nitrous Modifications on their cars, which click in with a hisssss as they pull past me, glancing sideways to make sure I am impressed. The suited and Booted executives who are in a rush to get nowhere in particular. The young office workers having one too many friday luchtime drinkies outside a hotel.

I love how this City takes responisbility for it’s less fortunate*. The toilets all bearing bright yellow Needle Bins and a doctor in the Train Station; places for the homeless to wash and clean up. When was the last time I saw a Needle Bin in London? I can’t remember if I ever have.

I love the way it makes me feel to be part of Perth. To have integrated myself, but no so much that people don’t swivel and stare when they hear my loud british voice exclaiming something wonderous I have just noticed about our amazing Perth.

I love that I can drive for only five minutes and find myself home. With a view of my beloved Skyscrapers, but to the peace and solitude as though I were in the country. The only audible noises, the buzz of the Swimming Pool filter and the hum of the cars along the Cafe Strip at the top of the road.

I fell in love with Perth some years ago, and I keep falling.

*please don’t tag me/link to me for political reasons – sheesh, I’m just saying that Perth has facilities that London doesn’t. NOT that anyone should be grateful for living rough/being a drug user.

Potter Oddity

I love Potter.

Fuck off.

I do.

The books rock and they are most readable. I have four children and I hope they get caught up enough in the moment to cry when they have finished the series.

I do!

I appreciate the creativity behind the writing of the books.

I appreciate the films in their own right, feeling some [displaced] loyalty to the cast and especially the crew (if you don’t get this reference, then please feel free to read my background/catalogue).

This though, I still find a little OTT: http://realwizardrock.com

Here are the lyrics to “A Dobby Ditty”. Seriously. Is this ironic or for real? I am obviously too mainstream these days, to tell:

Dobby has come
To warn Harry Potter, sir
Harry Potter, sir
Must not return to Hogwarts, sir
Harry Potter is in
Grave danger, sir
From very bad wizards – Bad Dobby!

Harry Potter’s friends
Don’t write Harry Potter
Yes, they do – No, Dobby, no!

Dobby is sorry
Harry Potter, sir
But Harry Potter, sir,
If Harry Potter comes to Hogwarts
Dobby knows things
About very bad wizards
And what they do –
No, bad Dobby
::THWACK!::

seriously – this is a song? I have to see this band. Out of morbid curiosity. WTF?

Fair play, wierdos.

My Breasts Rock…

Read the full story here.

In Praise of Breasts

I was sixteen when I got my left nipple pierced. It was just before I was due to sit an Exam and as I walked over to greet my friend JK who was waiting in line to enter the School, his face was shinning with uncontrollable laughter and disbelief. His look said it all: “you crazy bitch”. Very possibly he actually enunciated the exact words “you crazy bitch” at some point in the lengthy discussions that were consequently held about my nipples and breasts, but it is his face and not his words that I will always remember. People didn’t pierce their bodies as frequently then, as they do now. It was a novelty; an oddity.

I was busy “owning” my breasts really. Having worn a bra since the age of ten and carting the DD monstrosities around for some years on a very small frame, I had been sick to death of wearing granny bras and “dealing” with the oversized Mammaries I was endowed with. So I started going braless and I pierced my left nipple. Problem solved. I now loved my breasts. They rocked. They held attention where my words had failed. They gave me pleasure by merely existing as I walked down the street and allowed the material of my shirt to rub up and down with each step. These puppies got me where I wanted to go – bars, clubs, restaurants, backstage at gigs…it didn’t take much to get what and where I wanted with my tits on my team.

As time went on, I tended to forget about the effect they had on people. The initial rediscovering of them was no longer a novelty for me and they resumed service as simply a part of me – my chest.

Fast forward some years and I am pregnant with my first son. My ribs are hidden somewhere underneath a set of bowling balls harnessed by a bra that has the letter G somewhere on the label. Moving around has become an issue and trying soap in the shower without looking like a cheap rate porno has become near impossible. “You’ll lose them” many women told me, in warning tones…”don’t breastfeed or they’ll sag”.

Excuse Me? What the Fuck?

“Don’t breastfeed and give your child all the necessary nutrients that his small body may need because there is a chance that your pert helium balloon-like breasts might sag”. Shit off! Um, I think at this point, we are beyond worrying about whether these giant things are going to lose their battle with gravity. They are. It’s physics.

So I breastfed my son. As he grew, simultaneously, I shrank. By the time he was One year old, I looked normal. Small even. I only filled a C cup. I got both nipples re-pierced. A Celebration. “Hurrah!” I thought.

For about a week.

“I want my boobs back!” I yelled at NiceEx in horror. Unbeknown to me, he had already obliged me on this and I was actually pregnant with PoetBoy’s younger Brother, Elmo.

The breasts resumed their race for the Playboy Mansion once again, this time hovering at a respectable E cup.

Two more children later and my body, my breasts and I have been pregnant over the last Decade for over three years. Add to this breastfeeding times (allowing for overlaps etc) and we have been busy expanding and contracting for over six years.

I am proud of all that we have achieved together: A long a fulfilling career in cock teasing; bra buying and breastfeeding respectively.

A capacity for giving both pleasure and life giving milk.

A demonstrated capability to multi-task.

My breasts are Awesome. They don’t look like they used to, but nor does my face, my arms, my legs or my stomach. I am firm in my belief (if not in my breast tissue – come on, you were dying to make the gag yourself), that I indeed look far better now then I did on Exam day all those years ago.

My little C cup tits jump when I do…they bounce and merrily dance their way down the street as I walk. They bask in the anonymity of their smallishness. They congratulate themselves on their worth. They sneak sideways glances at the amazing children that they helped to create and nurture. They laugh to themselves at the surprising amount of men that seem to think that they are the breasts of a much younger woman. They feel lucky that they have no illness within them and that they were able to function well during their career thus far.

And if they get sad? If the smile and the bounce fade away? I shall buy them some silicone and they can go on smiling. They’ve earned it.

Two days drive for a bit of sun…

…and the chance to hand-feed dolphins, oh yeah!!

So Himself is finally leaving. After much postponing and umming and ahhing, he is ready to “go North” to build* some massive bridge or another in the middle of no-where, involving complicated technical drawings, lots of big numbers and large amounts of extreme cleverness on Himself’s part. All stuff that I do not understand, being the wordy, arty side of our partnership who struggles with her eight times table (yes, I do).

So what does the conciencious partner of said Mr Hardwork do whilst he is away, busting his arse in the land of Red Dust? She plans a road-trip on account of the children being off school and the weather in the capital struggling to reach 20 degrees (with it being Winter and all).

Monkey Mia is famous for it’s “resident” dolphins. The children are crazy about all things Living and Marine . It kind of adds up. I shall throw the boys and some supplies into the FunBus and away we shall run. Away from the city, away from the cold and away from the house without Daddy in it. We shall spend a couple of days on the road and a couple of nights in Caravan Parks. When we get to Monkey Mia, we will spend time in the water and on the beach, listening to music, eating good food and chilling together. When we are done, we will drive for two days to get home and we will be exhausted enough not to worry that Himself is not on the balcony to greet us. The children will go back to school and I shall work hard on Launching the Site that will not Launch (it’s taking forever anyway with pesky old life getting in the way). We will be just fine. Really. Just Fine.

 

*or rather have lots of big burly fellows build it for him whilst he plans and thinks and schemes etc.

UPDATE: We are ALL still in the City…Hurrah.  Himself didn’t go North. I’ll swim with Dophins another time, for now I have my family home and together.

Therapy. A conversation with my thirteen year old self.

WARNING : This post is long and all about moi.

We all need a little therapy from time to time. I didn’t think that imagining a conversation between myself and er, myself would help anyone with anything ever. Felt good though. I don’t know if it was what I was “meant” to write…but write it I did.

I have ummed and Ahhed as to whether I should post this as Mama Femme is bound to read it. If she does, then she will cry, because that’s what [great] mums do when they hear their child’s pain. Frankly I have made M.F cry enough over the years; but this blog is mine and lest I should feel censored, I am going to share this anyway. So with the knowledge that M.F is currently on a cruise ship with no Internet access, and with this paragraph serving as my disclaimer to all who choose to read beyond it, I shall continue:

I meet my thirteen year old self on neutral territory. The horror she would feel at the prospect of some “old” person like me rocking up and demanding entry to her bedroom would overshadow everything I have to tell her, so we meet in a pub.

We order drinks (her – Snakebite and Black and me – a bottle of beer – I’m not here to show off) and sit down in a corner of the pub in which we wont be overheard. She lights a cigarette, whilst I decline the proffered packet. I have long since given up. She crosses her legs defensively and casually blows smoke rings in the air as she looks expectantly at me. She makes me nervous. I should imagine that she would make anyone nervous. Here is this dangerously attractive, if slightly tired looking young girl, wearing next to nothing but a leather jacket, feeling as though she knows all about the world, waiting for me to offer her an explanation as to why I have asked her to meet with me. I have to remind myself that she is only thirteen.

“Aren’t you gunna tell me I’m too young to smoke or drink?”. Her voice is deep and she has and East End (London) accent. Her tone is confrontational.

“No” I reply “It’s not going to kill you; I should know, because I am you, a long time from now”

She looks unsurprised, in fact, more than that – she looks wholly unimpressed.

My god how I have changed. Here is me (current me), caught off balance by a fake accent that I had long since forgotten about, whilst my thirteen y.o self is unperturbed by meeting her future self.

“I don’t know how long we have. I don’t really know how this works, or when I have to go back, so I need you to listen” I try to continue.

“What!! You go’ a messij from the f-yew-cha ave ya?!”. Her voice is dripping with sarcasm. That put-on accent sucks. Hindsight is a wonderful thing.

“Yeah, I have actually. Several”. She’s pissing me off now, but I suck it up, because it doesn’t matter right now.

“You are going to meet some pretty shit people over the next few years, and one or two great ones. I am not going to tell you which ones are which because you need to work on your skills at assessing people – it’s something you are crap at right now. People are going to hurt you, but you must learn the hard way.”

“Brilliant. Fanks for comin’ all this way ta tell me tha’. Anyfing else?”

“Yes actually. You know that your mum tells you that you are worth ten of your friends? she’s under exaggerating. I know you think I am talking crap, but just watch them do nothing over the next couple of years.I know what you can achieve with hard work. This lot’ll still be drinking in this same pub twenty years from now, just like they have for the last ten. They’ll still be claiming dole and slagging off the “working folk”. You are thirteen. you will get this shit out of your system, because it becomes boring to an intelligent mind. When you do, then watch out world. I’ve seen where you will be in twenty years time.”

“Also, you are not fat. Eat a meal once in a while, it’ll help you think straight”.

“You don’t owe anyone anything. If someone buys you a beer, don’t feel like you are obliged to them. £1.50 doesn’t make them your friend. Likewise, let me give you the heads up on something: don’t marry someone just because they don’t beat you up or call you names [yet]. It’s a legal contract and it’s hard to get out of.”

“I should probably not give you specifics, but I have a few pointers for you anyway:

• Don’t buy Matt’s leather jacket from him. Let him kill himself on the shit he’s snorting on his own if that’s what he chooses, that’s his affair. Don’t be the one who pays for his last hit. You’ll blame yourself.
• Don’t be alone in a room with Sean, you can’t trust him.
• Don’t assume that people will help you get away from the boyfriend who beats you, just because they know what he does. These people are just NOT that decent or ballsy.
• Look out for the good people you are going to meet along the way. Don’t tarnish everyone with the same brush.
• The mood swings? Change your pill now, not in five years time and get a heatlamp. you have S.A.D and your hormones are all over the place because you are thirteen. It’ll pass. You are not terminally suicidal.
• When you meet a drunk on the forecourt of a BP garage in Rochford after a night out in London, DUCK. He’s going to punch you in the face.”

“The next few years are all preparation for something amazing in your future. When you wonder “why?” when you are sleep deprived and working two jobs, clubbing til all hours; when you are clearing up your grown housemate’s piss from the carpet for the millionth time because he is a drunken idiot; when your flat is “party central” and you feel you have no time to yourself, and not a minute in the day that is quiet; you are building resilience.

One day, you will have four little boys who are noisy, sleep depriving and will piss on the carpet for the first two-three years of their lives. You will “cope” like few people around you cope. You will smile when others parents around you feel that they cannot. You will not feel burdened, because you have known what it is to be truly burdened.

I want to hug you because I love you and I know that a small part of you inside that loves you too. Keep that part alive through the tough stuff, and when things calm down, it will grow. You will feel pride, achievement, love and happiness. I know not now. I know that these emotions feel alien to you now, but you are good and you are strong and one day it will all come together.”

When I finish prattling on, she is crying. She is crying because she knows that there is an end to her sadness without an end to her life. She is relieved. She wouldn’t let me hug her, but she may go home and hug her mum today. That’s good enough for me.

Teething

Baby J is cutting his back teeth. He hasn’t slept through the night in weeks, spending at least five hours of darkness just huddled up to me crying intermittently and kicking his legs in frustration. This morning we go to the shop to buy some bread. The lady who served me is Maori. “How are we this morning” she asks Baby J, sweetly. Baby J smiles shyly, then whimpers and buries his head in my shoulder. “He’s teething”, I offer by way of explanation. The Sweet Maori Lady leans across the counter. She is going to tell me a secret, I am sure of it. “Do you know what Maori women do?” she asks. “No” I answer. I am excited – I have a deep rooted fascination with how different cultures to mine deal with life’s troubles. It’s my “thing”, and now here I am about to learn some Maori wisdom that may be relevant to my current situation. I fleetingly imagine myself boiling up some herbs that she will helpfully list for me and watching my baby happier and in less pain. I imagine telling the other Mums at the school gate “I know, it’s amazing – just look at the difference in him”. My fantasy is interrupted by the Sweet Maori Lady as she is talking again “They cut the gums”.

“Pardon?” I manage, agog.

“I know” she says conspiratorially “it wasn’t for me – but The Elders would do that. My auntie told me to do that with my own sons”. “Oh” I answer. “Well, I, er, imagine it speeds the process along somewhat” I say, astounded, but trying to find something polite to say; afterall, it is not my place to judge. “They take a razor blade and cut along here” she says pointing to her own gums. I smile. I catch my balance. “Wow” I say. “well, it’s not for me either, but how interesting to learn about the old ways” I say genuinely. I really do love to hear about these things. Baby J eyes me suspiciously. I hope that he has no comprehension of this conversation whatsoever. I thank the Sweet Maori Lady and we are on our way.

This morning Baby J feels that everything is wrong. I see in his eyes a haunting confusion; a look that says “why does it hurt mama?”. He’s had enough. The baby whom dislikes sleep at the best of times, is begging me to help him drift off so that his jaw will stop aching. He is clutching a piece of bread and butter. He looks pointedly at it and hands it to me. “Now I will sleep” he says with his eyes.

He cannot close his eyes as the pain is all consuming. “mummy, help!” he is saying, “I am hungry and tired – you need to help me”. I shush and stroke him. I offer the bread nonthreateningly toward him. He screams in frustration and bats it out of my hand, onto the sofa. Good shot. It lands butter side down of course. He glares at me. I offer him a drink. He starts to take the drink and his eyes slowly close.

Ping. A moment later his eyes are wide with fright. The pain is in his mouth again. “It’s ok Baby, the medicine will start working soon” I say. His back arches. Suddenly he snatches up the bread from where it landed. He has decided to eat – to at least make his tummy feel better. Tentatively he puts it to his mouth. He is hungry. He takes a tiny bite. He screams. It hurts too much to put his teeth through the bread. Crying, he grabs me in a headlock. He is fiercely cuddling me to fight the pain. I am humming. It usually soothes him. He is trying to go to sleep and listen to Mummy’s humming. He curls his fingers in my long hair. Butter and breadcrumbs tangle into my hair and brush against my cheek. His grip loosens. He is asleep. The pain forgotten. For now.

Parental Fibs #1

Everyone Lies.

Only, I don’t.

If you ask me a straight question, then I will give you a straight answer, no matter what the consequences. If my answer ends our friendship then so be it; if you use the truthful information I have provided as the reason to leave you cheating husband, then I wear the responsibility of that, because, well, at night: I can sleep.

I don’t live with anyone’s conscience but my own and I intend to live struggle free when it come to all matters truth related. It’s not very noble, infact it can be seen as quite selfish as people don’t always want to hear the truth; hell, I have wished I hadn’t heard the stark reality of my situation from another’s mouth before now.

Now, just to clarify, I am in no way a busy body…I don’t gossip or go out of my way to tell people things about themselves or others, but if you asked me a question for which I have that answer, then I would [answer truthfully].
I used to lie. It was “easier”, especially about little things, “bending the truth” to suit the situation; but I vowed that I wouldn’t raise liars, so I lead by example.

Thing is (after all my wittering about being so honest), I just told a lie. It was noticable in the sea of truth that is my world, it was a little fib – a “white” lie

…a rose by any other name and all of that…it was still a lie.

My phone was blaring out an old playlist of “Me” music that I only ever usually listen to with earphones…all the old stuff that doesn’t get radio airplay and would be wrecked by trying to find a “radio edit” suitable for the children to partake in. Baby J had managed to activate the MP3 playing capabilities however and so it was idly blaring Frank Zappa – Bobby Brown Goes Down. Great song. Genius in fact, but if my eldest ever asks you, then I would appreciate you colluding with me in my lie :

LINE: “I tell you people, I was not ready, when I fucked this dyke by the name of Freddie”.

IS NOW: I tell you people, I was not ready when I bought this Bike by the name of Freddie.

(I am rather relieved he walked in halfway through the song or I would have bastardised a great song all the way through).

I KNOW, I know…I suck.