Dreams, Ponderings, and Mindless Wanderings

Door mints

This blog has been more dormant than active. Some of that is because of hardware. The keyboard gives me the irits, and it's too hot to be around a heat-generating device. And some of this is just me. There is nothing more to say, really.

I've decided to quit running. It gives me pain with each step. I've picked up yoga to help and have made a deal: I have to do three yoga sessions if I want to run. I don't see the point in posting about pains if I'm not doing anything to prevent them. I haven't had a runner's high since I moved to Australia. I don't think it's in me anymore.

I've also been overseas long enough that there is nothing new to say in my notes home. I've either lost touch with old friends or they know enough about immigration, Australian culture, and my life in Brisbane that I don't feel the need to report back.

Then what else is there?

Exactly. Nada. I have nothing to say, so I'll be shutting this down soon. It's time to face away from the computer.

Good-bye, Puss Puss.

Have I mentioned the accent problem lately?

I'm cutting back on eating meat. Some of you remember when I cut it out nearly completely a while back. I fell off that tofuwagon when we went to Thailand. That is not a country to visit with dietary restrictions.

But moderation for Katy is back in.

Or I thought.

About four weeks ago, Andrew came up to visit. He likes the spicy chicken we got from a local butcher. He makes a spicy crust that puts hair on your chest and a burn in your botty bot. I put away my no-meat unless unavoidable plan for the length of his stay. I called the butcher:

Butch Cassidy: Hello. Do you have any spicy chicken?
Butcher: No. That's really a winter thing.
(unappreciated playwright's note: Many Australians see spicy foods as a winter meal. Many, not all.)
Butch Cassidy: Can you make me some?
Butcher: Sure. (Unsaid but understood: I am a business man, toots. You give me cash; I give you chook.) How much do you want?
Butch Cassidy: A whole chicken, like you usually do.
(unappreciated playwright's note: Last time we had to special order, he said I had to get a whole chicken. Fine.)
Butcher: Okay. It'll be ready tomorrow.

The next day I got a call from the Lervemunkee at the butcher's.
Lervemunkee: My little rose petal of dewey loveliness?
LRPoDL: Yes?
Lervemunkee: How much spicy chicken did you order?
LRPoDL: A whole chicken.
Lervemunkee: There's a lot of chicken here.
LRPoDL: Well, there'd be two legs, two thighs, two breasts, and two wings. There are three of us and some of those pieces will be small. It's enough for two nights.
Lervemunkee: Are you sure that's all you ordered?
LRPoDL: Yes! Gah.

The Lervemunkee comes home and goes on and on about how much chicken there is. I'm thinking that I married the wussiest Australian marathoner. He can run 42 km, but eight pieces of chicken divided among three people over two nights kills him?

I go into the kitchen to explain why he needs to grow a set. 

In his hands is a tray of meat. It might even be a small country. "What is that?" I ask. "Is that the chicken?" It was. Somehow my "whole chicken" turned out to be more than 16 breast fillets.

I have no idea what he heard. This last Tuesday was the end of the spicy chicken. The Lervemunkee and I had our colonoscopies two years ago, and all was fine. Even if there had been the smallest polyp that escaped detection, I know that we are in the clear after all that chili. We have been internally cauterised.

Nuh-night, Puss Puss.

Australia Day

This is my first Australia Day as a dual citizen. I plan on breaking one of the bigger Australia Day traditions from the start. I don't eat lamb. I eat meat here and there and am cutting back; however, I never ate babies: veal and lamb. Australia Day is promoted as a lamb-eating day more than it is a day of celebrating what it means to be Australian. I have no idea what that means, but I can say it like I do. To me, being Australian means being a part of a country full of people from all over the world who came to this big island to have a better life. Does that sound familiar? It is also about living with the people who were here first and respecting their traditions. Again, familiar to anyone? Everything else is open to interpretation; however, defining a nationality by meat consumption is weird. You can be a Texan and not eat steak 21 times a week. You can be Australian and prefer Thai and tofu to fatty lamb.

The Americans would hate to think they're not special, and the Aussies would hate to think they're acting similar to the Septics (tanks rhymes with...), but when it comes to their national holidays, they are very similar: BBQs, beer, scorching heat, flags.

Flags are a funny thing. In the U.S. they over-worship their own. Don't burn it, but wave a tattered one over your crappy car dealership. Forget about freedom of expression, but leave your own up in the rain. No, even better--don't look to see if your flag was even made in the U.S. with U.S. cotton. Let it be made from a petroleum biproduct out of a factory in Macau, India, or Mexico.

I don't hate my U.S. flag. I just don't wave it. I love that there are 13 stripes for the original colonies. Those weren't even American. They became American, but they're a reminder that we didn't start here. Our history starts on another continent. And now we have 50 stars to say where we are. These fifty states had--and still have--their own issues. Minnesota and the Sioux uprising. Texas as a republic. Hawai'i, Alaska, New Mexico.

No, I love my flag. I just don't think it should be used to as a tool to show who is more American than who.

The Aussies don't wave their flag as much, but they're no less flaggy. Even when Australia Day isn't near, you can find the flag on beach towels, bikinis, thongs (the ones that blister your toes, not your buns), hats, undies, etc. The beautiful Australian flag is as common of a tat as the American one (percentage-wise). It's a beautiful flag, too. There's the Union Jack in the upper hoist quadrant or the Canton, the Southern Cross in the second and fourth quarter, and the Star of Federation in the lower hoist (third quarter) of the flag. Those stars are a pain to draw, though. Each has seven points for the six states and combined territories. Have you ever drawn anything with seven equal parts? It's a gorgeous flag, but no one considered the little tykes trying to draw it. They started off great: "Let's divide it into four equal parts." However, they dropped the ball with the details: "Let's lump the territories together so the star has seven points. That'll stop those kids who think they can make stars."

And then there's the redneckery. Really, these two countries have more in common than each thinks. Even in Australia there are t-shirts that read: If you don't love it, leave! What? You thought that crap was uniquely American? No. Australia had a chance to be unique and be populated by puppies, kittens, ponies, bunnies, and little doodle beetles, but no. It is a country of humans, unfortunately, and the jackassery gene is uniquely human. Ugliness knows no political boundaries.

This saddens me because not loving it at all times is what makes Australia (and the U.S.) great places to live. You have the right to feel proud when Kevin Rudd said "sorry", but you can also feel ashamed when two women from France are beaten for not speaking English. Unconditional love requires no thinking. I like to believe I have a relationship with both countries with ups and downs, honeymoons and therapy, and bun squeezings and face slappings.

I'm going to make heaps of money with my new t-shirt: If you don't love it, write to your member of parliament or legislative representative, get involved with local politics and action groups, think about what you can to to fix it, and express or explain your displeasure using carefully thought out words and avoid using stereotyping and clichés. Oh man. And what will make my t-shirts special, is that I'm going to hand print all of them. Taking orders now.

So how will I celebrate Australia Day? I have no idea. I think I'll just be me and appreciate that I can without the threat of stoning, beating, or imprisonment. I probably won't be decked out in Australiana, but since I have so far spent most of the day in just a t-shirt and undies, I still feel very Aussie.

Nuh-night, Puss Puss from the American me.
Nuh-night, Puss Puss from the Australian me.

The Joy of Accents

My accent gives me power, but it also takes it away.

Telemarketer calls? I'm sorry. I'm just a renter. An exchange student, really. Mrs Hewitt? Don't know her. The owner of the house? Gee, I don't know. Ask the real estate agency. Again, what do I know? How long have I been here? Oh, just arrived. I am but a helpless foreigner. I cannot answer anything.

Powerful me.

But what about things that bother me? By having an accent, I'm stuck with just dealing with it. Crappy service? Too bad. I'll take it. Grumpy, sullen teen bitchy when she takes my movie ticket. Yes, thanks. So glad you showed up to work today. Sigh. Don't think this is an Australian thing. I know Americans and any other nationality would do the same. Instead of dealing with the issue, they'll hear the accent and just discount you as a bitchy American, bossy Australian, arrogant German, negative description of Countryman from Country X. You get the picture.

Powerless me.

I didn't know how powerless I was until yesterday when I took Andrew to the movies. The woman next to me had flipped up the armrest that divided her seat from her child's so her daughter could lie on her lap. Yes, aw. How sweet. It was. For a while. The little girl had more interest in visiting with her friend Darcy across the cinema, so mum was duly dumped for Darcy. Why do I care?

Mum decided to spread across both seats with her bare feet on the chair, soles facing me. She didn't make a lot of noise shuffling around. I wouldn't have known had I not wondered why the cinema started to smell like sweaty, acidic feet.

I should have said something, but I didn't. Could you? What would you have said? How do you politely ask someone to have their rank nasty, manky-ass troll feet removed from the vicinity of my olfactory capture zone? I worried that she'd just hear the accent and get annoyed at the unfriendly American. She would go home to tell people about another rude Yank and omit the part about her stinky feet.

St. Me, patron saint of foreign accents in awkward situations.

Nuh-night, Puss Puss.

When there's too much to say, post about a dream.

It's too much to ask. I was gone for six weeks. I've been back for nearly two. There's too much to say; I have nothing to say. I can't find my photos. I don't know where to start. I don't want to start. I'm tired. I'm up. I'm cutting back. I'm starting over.

In the U.S., there was a bubble bath or soak called Calgon. In the ads, a woman would say, "Calgon, take me away." That's all I remember.

Calgon was also an "ancient Chinese secret."

One issue I can focus on is that j'ai perdu mon meaujeau. Yes, that's right. Das Motscho. My mojo, eet eess a losted. I'm still without the general mojo, but this morning I did get up to run. How did I get up so early and perky? I had a dream about the Canberra marathon.

Stupid. I never plan on running that one. That's my marathon to cheer. I can stay in one place and see the runners four times. I'm starting to plan this year's costumes already.

I have no business dreaming that I'm running it. I certainly have no business dreaming that I'm out in front. I am. I'm in front when I come across a street that's flooded with ice chunks in the water. If you've ever seen a lake in the process of freezing over, you'll know what this looks like. I'm not about to run through that. It'll be freezing and wet; I'll get frost bite and blisters in one day. I see no way to stay dry except to run along someone's fancy schmancy fountain. I'm crawling along the rocks to stay dry when the rest of the field catches up and runs through the water. One woman, a "running trainer" (a dream creation, go figure), scolds me and tells me that I just wasted time climbing when I should have just run through the water. I won't win now. Sure. I love dreams. It's not that I bolted ahead of the elite and will die in a few more metres. No, it's the climbing over the fountaing to avoid the icy water. That's what'll keep me off the podium.

This "running trainer", who started out anonymous to me and very much the bitchy woman, eventually became Ewen. Now Ewen is running with me. We get to the point in the marathon when we're running down several flights of stairs in a gym slash warehouse (What? You expected logic?), and I decided to jump the last few flights. Ewen said that was cheating. I told him I'd run back and forth on level ground the distance of the other flights to make up for it. Now that we were in the gym, we had to wait until our names were called. When the organisers called our names, we'd get our name on a sticker so the people at the end would know for whom they cheered (vs the bells tolled), and we'd get our number on an envelope with our race information.

While I was waiting, I was putting on the shoes Ewen gave me. These shoes didn't fit and tied funny. My feet looked like bad balloon animals, but eventually I got the shoes tight enough. When I did, I heard my name called. I got my packet and then looked at Ewen. He was carrying my shoes. Turns out, I was wearing his monster shoes, but not even good runners. These are the shoes he'll be wearing when he's 80+ and mowing lawns in dark socks. Mall walking shoes. I have no time to change. I've spent 20 minutes getting them on, and the pins given to me to fasten the race packet are all tangled. It's time to just finish. So I ran the rest of the way (~2 km) barefooted.

At the end, Tesso commented on my ankles. They were bruised from running barefooted. I ended up with a 4:20. Reality Katy with the broken hip should have been pleased, but dream Katy wasn't. She knew she lost time with the fountain and the shoes. It could have been a PB.

So that was the reason why I was able to get up and go. I had something to prove. Or it could have been that other dream that involved being naked under a pile of laundry looking for the movie i had been watching outside in the snow and trying not to be embarrassed that I was nude in front of John Larroquette, the janitor from "Scrubs", and Patrick Duffey or that I told them "I apologise for being nude, but this is how I am most of the time."

Nuh-night, Puss Puss. Dream on.

Just a teaser...

Check out the family gams.

When up is down

I promised myself that I wouldn't post while the Lervemunkee was still with me. It's all I can do to arrange places to go, pies to eat, cappuccino foam to get off my nose, and keep up with e-mail (btw, there is a toilet crisis at home--I'm staying here). If I kept up with posting and reading blogs, I'd be neglecting my little Man Jar of Vegemite.

But then yesterday happened.

While on this trip, we're hoping to meet a few CIFs--creepy internet friends. I don't know if Dread Pirate Rackham coined that term or not, but I'm using it and giving her credit. I was going to blather on about them in a PLmD post ("Post-Lervemunkee departure" will probably not be used as much as CIF), but yesterday was just weird. Odd. Wrong but right.

The Lervemunkee and I started off by driving to White Rock Lake for a run. I love this area. After I graduated from university, I planted myself around White Rock. There is so much nostalgia for me that it's almost too distracting for a decent run. The Lervemunkee ran the entire perimeter, I just did an out and back. I think I had the fish stink be the turn around. I had forgotten about that area. Fish-munching birds rest and poop their fish-rich poo in an area that every runner knows--the no-inhale zone. We have one near our house where the flying foxes poo and pee. Nature. She's not always a looker.

After our run, I gave him a tour of my last neighbourhood, Little Forest Hills. I don't know why the PDF link is upside down. Maybe they know I'm talking to Australians, too. The tour got me all homesick for Dallas. I think the Lervemunkee enjoyed seeing where I lived, too. We were in a happy cloud. What could make this morning even better? Bagels!

We drove to a place to share a bagel. Then my day got weird fast.

Quick refresher:
We're here for a few weeks.
This is our first trip back to Texas in more than three years.
We are eating in an average bagel shop--nothing spectacular or on Zagat's survey.

After we get our bagel and sit down, I look up and see my college roommate.

Another refresher:
I studied in Ohio at Miami University.
My roommate was born and raised in Pennsylvania.
After graduation, she moved to D.C.
She now lives in Memphis.

Do you get the point I'm about to make? Neither of us lives in Dallas. I hate to ask "what are the chances", but I think this time the chances are really slim. The kicker is that the last time I saw her was when she flew down to Dallas to meet this CIBFnLm (creepy internet boyfriend now Lervemunkee, again, this might not catch on). It was a long weekend. I look back and still don't know why she came. We hadn't been in touch, and she made it clear that she had no interest in us. Scorn-o-rama. Pah. Her money. She used her miles to come down to loathe us. My only gripe was that it was a waste of my time. I'm aging. Anyone who wastes my time is, in my opinion, killing me.

After she left, I wrote a brief and polite, but not at all sincere, e-mail stating how happy I was to see her again. She never responded. Whew. Good riddance. That was all I heard until earlier this year when I got one of those LinkedIn notices that she "wants to be my friend."

*click* IGNORE

And there she was eating a bagel and drinking a coffee across the room from me. Did I say anything? Sure did. I said, "Oh shit, there's my roommate. Don't look."

What should I have done? Why pretend we care? I just enjoyed the weirdness of it. I figured out why she was here (gawbless Google). We were only in Dallas for two overlapping days. Why not eat at the same strip mall's generic bagel eatery?

That's bad weird.

Good weird happened later when we visited Runner Susan and her posse. She's posted photos. Oh, and someone please tell me why one tooth doesn't reflect light. Is that the root canal? Makes me look icky. Or ickier. The screaming cold sore makes me look icky. It's like my face knew that it was yearbook photo day--my national holiday of ugliness. I'll post more about the good time we had (and about catching up with Tammy earlier), but this post is about weird stuff.

I see my college roommate and avoid her. I meet a CIF and have a great time. Avoid a person I shared everything with and used to call a best friend. I meet a blogger and then can't sleep because I kept replaying the great evening. Oh, and because she offered me two espressos after 8 pm. I'd have said no, but she put whippy creamy yumminess on top, so it's really her fault. I was ready to just say "no, thank you".

I think from 2 to 3 am, I just thought about how weird this trip will be. I hope to see a total of three CIFs. There are many FF (flesh friends) I won't be able to see this trip. I should be thrilled to see one by accident. With other people, I should have found a time to see the roommate and apologise to Runner Susan for cancelling, but that's not how it worked, and I liked it better this way.

CIFs are VIPs n U should C them ASAP.

Okay, that maxed out my text speak.

More on the specific CIF dates later. I'll just leave you with these teasers: Tammy is goofier in person (from me, that's a good thing) and Runner Susan's equal half is uebersmitten with her.

Nuh-night, Puss Puss, and just say no to brewed legal stimulants...

...unles, that is, they're topped with whippy creamy goodness.

I'm a one-trick pony

I did another half marathon at 2:07. This is getting old.

I'll copy the e-mail I sent to the Brisbane Running Buddies. I should change it a bit, but it's that dilemma of copy, paste, eat salsa or start anew, miss salsa.

To be or not to be...

Salsa to be eaten.

E-mail to be pasted.

You to be understanding.

i don't know if you heard, but the race start was a balmy 1 degree Hellcius (33 F). far out. i haven't been that cold in a few years. i studied in ohio, so i have been cold. i'm not a total sook. i even ran in the double digit negamatives, but not in a long time. i nearly missed the race start looking on the ground for my missing nipples. mark? he was shaking uncontrollably. saturn cars had a little heat lamp place, and we all snuggled in like emperor penguins.

mark was in corral #2; katy was in #14. there were more than 30. gun time was 7:44. mark's group took off a few minutes after that. katy's? nearly 25 minutes later. i told some guy from chicago that we were used to qld and not this. he said, "yes, but we don't stand outside our houses near naked for 40 minutes." true. and it was much longer if you think that we arrived over an hour before the race. fah reeeeez zink! i didn't feel my toes for the first 5 km. that made for weird running. i kept looking down to make sure i was running right. i think pat has been a little slack in not having us run after sinking our feet in ice-cream for 2 hours.

the halfsies and fullies were together for the first 10 miles, which was a path through the city. as a zen runner, i saw everything: the alamo, the guy dressed as a banana, the many groups of cheerleaders (really appreciated those annoying little pixies sunday), the woman on roof cheering, and the low-rider blasting his latino music. mark didn't see those things. bless that focused boy.

at mile 10, elvis divided us up. i knew he lived.

2:07 later, i was done. considering that i stopped at the bands and the alamo to take photos (often stopping to cross to the other side) and had to undress and re-dress when the temps climbed to 14, i thought i'd have been slower. i have another half this trip. it's through my home town, so i don't plan on taking photos.

i think it took me longer to get through the runners' area. one of the sponsors was a grocery store chain, so there was a lot of food. they even had texas-shaped cheese and jalapeno chips. far out.

mark was a little disappointed about not BQing (bahstin qualifying). i figure that if you are not running to heal your hammy and do 3:24, you're doing okay in my books. he cramped within 50 metres from the finish but made it through. he go girl. he made up for it by BBQing.

some people bitched about the hills (eight total with a special good-bye one at the very end. JOY!), but if he did 3:24 having not run for two weeks and a recovering hammy and i did one of my better times taking plenty of time to get photos of the bands, then it was just fine. didn't feel fast and easy, but it wasn't horrible.

we do miss our BRBs and PCRG sessions (pineapple from anyone other than Pat is just not right). take care. let me know how many of you want a frozen margarita, and i'll consume them in your names.

Nuh-night, all y'all Puss Pusses!

Knowing more sometimes makes it better

This is just a quick update about Friday.

It turns out that the man in the river was not young. I have to admit that I thought he was young because of his size: thin. And I could add that his skin was clear. He seemed young. No, he was older--40s to 50s--but still had his life ahead.

I think.

If you read the article about him, you see that he had problems. I don't want to go into too much detail here (don't want this found in any Google search about him), but you can see he had some health problems.

As I learn more about him, he's become a living person in my imagination. Although that might not be healthy if I had a relationship with him--if he were a cousin, husband, friend--but I don't. I can afford this kind of denial, and it's nicer to think of him as this thin man (a runner?) with a wife who might tease him about his webbed toes. It's where I go in my mind when the image of the body comes up.

I didn't know about the webbed toes until today. Thank goodness. The morning after we saw the body, I was a birthday party for a three year old. She has two toes that are webbed. When she was born, the doctor asked, "Okay, who has the webbed feet?" Her dad. We were joking about her toes at the party. To me it was a nice distraction because the party was at a park on the river very close to where we were.

~~~
Now to lighten it up. If I don't soon, the blog will become depressing.

What a good time to leave, no? We're heading out soon. I am so excited to come back to my Texas home. We're running the San Antonio Rock and Roll marathon and half marathon, the Turkey Trot, and some 5k race in some small town some time before some Lervemunkee leaves. Then I'll run some more 5k races here and there, the White Rock half marathon (I might get to run with Cap'n Ru-buns), and end with the Jog'r Egg Nog'r 15k. If I come back bigger than I left, then I earned it.

On that note, I'm off. Errands to run or walk. Things to do. Bags to pack. Leaving in two days. Whee!

Nuh-night, Puss Puss

Afraid to sleep

I had a weird day today, but others had it worse.

I had planned to write a "geez, the kids today!" type post, but what I thought was the ugliest a day could be wasn't.

I'm just going to write and not take too much time to think about the order and best way to phrase things. I'm certainly not going to re-read to edit.

Living in the subtropics and having pets means fleas. Lots of them. It never freezes, so we never get to start over. Because of this battle, I had to flea bomb the house. This meant that I was banished and headed for my little coffee shop to finish a book over a cappuccino or two.

When I left to meet a friend for lunch, I saw two boys harassing an elderly man, an old scrap of a man. I stepped in. It looked like it was getting bad and that they didn't stop when they saw that I was there really unnerved me. These boys, who were around 12, didn't care and the three of them were heading to a busy street with no one paying attention. The old man was mad, but he was no match. I would probably be no match for kids that arrogant. Still, what would you do? So I told them to piss off and stayed with the old man until I knew he was on his way and not followed.

For fuck sake. Excuse my language, but I was--and still am--pissed. Furious. Before he left, the old man said that what they did to him was horrible, but that he didn't want to discuss it. Good grief. Where do you get off harassing another? And how does picking on an old man, and I am talking very elderly, make you a better person?

I thought it was the worst day for me in a long time. I was upset. Wouldn't you be? I was also nervous. Will I be followed? Are they regulars? Will they recognise me? And what are two kids doing out of school at 11:30?

But that was nothing to what happened tonight.

The Pat Carroll Running Group (Peecie Argie) got a large group together to watch The Spirit of the Marathon at a theatre on the river. It wasn't a large theatre, so that we filled it was no big deal, but it was great to share the movie with other runners.

On the way back to the CityCat stop, a couple stopped us. They were embarrased to ask, but wondered what we thought something was in the river. It was dark and we were beyond where the walkway was lit. Okay, sure. Let's look.

I knew.

Dead.

It was a dead man. They weren't sure. Could it be a plastic bag? Could be. But I saw arms and a hint of legs. I knew. Had to. They were nervous about calling. What if we're wrong. I understood. How embarrassing to call in a busy police squad to haul in a bag or a big, dead fish. But I knew.  And I called 000.

After a confusing phone call (Do you need an ambulance? No, it's pretty pointless at this time. Where are you? On the walk way between the CityCat stop and the movie theatre.), I was told to stay there and wait.

And we did.

It was a weird time. I didn't look at my watch, so I don't know how long we were there, but--and not to be trite during tragedy--it was the worst "watched pot never boils" time lag for us. We kept trying to convince ourselves, we and this other couple, that we were wrong.

But we weren't. It was dark, but I knew. I think they knew, too. There was the back. Nothing floats like that.

Eventually, the police called for better directions. Remember, we're on the river walk. It's after a 7 o'clock movie ended. Was it 9 ish? We're between the river and a big wall that separates the units. They're going to have to park and find us by walking. There is no quick drive.

They arrived two minutes later. When we pointed to the floating object about 5 metres from us, they shone the flashlight.

There was no doubt. Someone lost a son. He was young. I won't go into detail about his appearance, but just know that he was a young man, and he wasn't supposed to die today. He didn't look bad. I mean, he wasn't bloated. There were no marks visible to us. I still hoped he'd lift his head and apologise for scaring us. I know that's weird, but for some reason--no matter how sure I was before--I wanted to hope he was just an ass goofing around. He did not look dead.

I know I should think it was a bad day for him. Sure, it was. But he's not suffering anymore. I just think about his parents, friends, girlfriend or boyfriend. Siblings. He'll be missed. Their lives are about to change forever. This is their bad day. Their worst day.

Because we didn't find the body, we were allowed to go on. The police took the details of the other couple. We were free to go. Free. Free to go home, to bed. My life goes on. I still have my Mark. I was not abused or harassed by kids. I have a lot to be thankful for if fleas are my worst problem.

Good night.

p.s. sorry for any glaring errors. i choose not to re-read this.