First up: I got another haircut. Yes I did. But! But! This haircut, it was a good haircut. Well, it wasn’t a bad haircut, anyway. Terry’s reaction: “It looks exactly the same as it did before.” Money well spent, then, although the hairdresser was gratifyingly horrified by the remnants of The Mullet . Also, both she and the girl who washed my hair said it was a lovely colour, and even although I know they say that to everyone, I still thought, “Ha! Take THAT, ginger haterz! Take that and party!”
Second up: Here is The Friday Five, with a little explanation first:
Ear worms are those annoying little songs that get stuck in your head. Sometimes they are the last song you hear on the radio before you go into the office, sometimes they just randomly pop in.
1. What is a common ear worm that you get?
I don’t think I have a common one (i.e. one that I get again and again), but the one I have right now, and have had ALL FREAKING WEEK, and also THE WEEK BEFORE THAT TOO is “Daddy’s Gone” by Glasvegas. Seriously, this song is in my head AT ALL TIMES right now and there is nothing I can do to shake it. Nothing. And this Friday Five isn’t really helping much, to be honest.
2. How long do they last?
This one? About two weeks and counting. GOD.
3. What do you do to get rid of them?
Well, I try to listen to something else, obviously. But then I get into the car and Terry puts on the Ear Worm, and that’s that.
4. What is the worse ear worm you’ve ever had?
Terry likes Meatloaf. ‘Nuff said.
5. Do you get some guilty pleasure in passing the ear worm along?
No, but Terry does. In fact, if Terry knows I have an Ear Worm, he will try to encourage it. Or he will try to replace it with Meatloaf. Actually, I really hope he doesn’t read this…
As always, feel free to answer on your own blog, or in the comments. And if you don’t want to do the whole thing, at least tell me what your current Ear Worm is, so I can finally get rid of “Daddy’s Gone”…
We don’t celebrate Thanksgiving here in the UK, obviously, but today we’re celebrating anyway, because as well as being Thanksgiving, today is also the day we got the results back from Terry’s latest round of blood tests.
This something we go through four times per year – something everyone with a transplant has to go through at regular intervals, in order to make sure everything’s still working the way it should. I don’t generally write about these tests here, because they’ve become part of our lives, but they’re something we have to live with – that particular brand of hell that is waiting for the results of medical tests to confirm to you that your life isn’t about to be torn apart once more.
That fear, of course, isn’t just a four-times-per-year thing, either. It’s something we live with every single day in life, and will have to live with forever, barring medical miracles. Had those tests come back today saying there was something wrong, there would’ve been no sunshine holiday for us, no happy Christmas: our lives would have, quite literally, changed overnight. We know this because it’s happened before.
So it’s not an easy thing to go through, this waiting. No matter how certain you are that everything’s OK, it’s hard to silence the “what ifs?” that whisper to you late at night that your life might once again be about to change.
It isn’t, though. The results that came back today were the best they’ve ever been – probably due to the fact that Terry’s worked hard these past few months to lose some weight and get fit. He’s probably healthier now than he’s been in years, and that’s quite an achievement when you consider that he’s a transplant recipient. The doctor described him as “the poster boy for transplants”. God, you all really want a new kidney now, don’t you?
So today I am thankful. I’m thankful that our lives get to remain the same. And, of course, I’m thankful to John, Terry’s brother and kidney donor, for saving them.
Tagged kidney transplant, Terry
Despite having been born with red hair, I’ve actually been pretty lucky in that I’ve never been physically attacked because of my universally reviled appearance. And come to think of it, although my mum got a lot of “don’t worry, she might grow out of it!” comments when I was a small baby, few people have been rude enough – or brave enough – to tell me to my face that they think my hair is ugly, either. Or, indeed, to kick me on the ass because of it.
(Note: one time in the shopping mall, a teenager did grab me by the collar, thrust his acne-ridden face into mine and scream, “You’re SO fucking ugly!” at me. I don’t know if that was because of my hair specifically, or just a more general observation, though, so I can’t really count it.)
No, most people tend to go for the more subtle, but just as offensive, method of telling me that hey, I’m not bad looking “for a redhead”. Or they’ll try to “comfort” me by reassuring me that I’m not actually a redhead at all, “it’s more of an auburn colour!” (This actually REALLY offends me because I don’t WANT to be “more of an auburn colour”, thanks – I’m happy with the colour I have and I don’t really need people trying to convince me I’m delusional, ya know?) Or, the all-time winner: “it’s OK on you, I guess, but when I see men with red hair I’m physically sick!” Yeah. Good job I’m not planning to breed then, or my offspring might really upset you…
So I’ve been lucky. Much luckier than the kid in this story, anyway, who was assaulted by a group of 13 teenagers, all taking part in “National Kick a Ginger Day”.
Let’s just take a minute to digest that. National. Kick. A. Ginger. Day. Doesn’t that sound fun? I mean, we already know that redheads have no soul so it stands to reason they have no feelings either, and therefore it’s perfectly acceptable to abuse them – whether physically or verbally – and expect them to just take the joke, isn’t it?
Because this is the thing. Almost every time I indulge in a rant about the hatred directed towards people with red hair in this country (or, in this case, in Canada, which surprised me, because it’s normally the UK that abuses its “gingers”), some bright spark comes along and tells me to “lighten up” or “get a sense of humour”.
A quote from the article I linked to above:
“Student Ken Logel said: “I have a few buddies with red hair, you just kind of kick them lightly just as a joke but when it gets carried away that’s not cool.”
No, that’s not “cool”, is it? I mean, a “light kick” is just fine, obviously. Because it’s SO FUNNY when people call you ugly and maybe leave you bruised and battered because of the colour of your hair, isn’t it? And that’s not AT ALL like abusing someone for the colour of their skin, or their religion or race, now, is it? On no, my mistake: IT IS. It is the same. And every time I write about prejudice against redheads, and compare it to prejudice against black people, or Jewish people, or < insert abused mimority group here > I’m told that I’m doing a disservice to victims of racism because what I’m talking about is SO MUCH LESS IMPORTANT, and is a JOKE, and doesn’t actually matter because for crying out loud it’s JUST HAIR.
Yes, it is. But now people are actually being physically attacked because of it. Now there are Facebook groups inciting violence against people with a certain colour of hair. How is this different from inciting violence against people with a certain colour of skin? Oh yeah: it isn’t. It really isn’t. And now I find myself wondering how many more attacks like this there will have to be before people start to admit that no, it’s really not cool. It’s not cool to beat people up for ANY REASON, be it skin colour, race, religion, or even hair colour. The fact that people think the first three are unacceptable (which they are) and the last is “just a joke” absolutely boggles my mind, it really does.
(Oh, and the “you can dye your hair - people can’t change the colour of their skin” argument? I SHOUDLN’T HAVE TO dye my hair to avoid abuse, any more than people with black skin should be forced to try and lighten it, or hide themselves away. People just shouldn’t abuse others, end of story.)
I’m glad to see that the police seem to be taking this incident seriously at least. But I can’t help wondering how much more of an outcry there would be if there was a “National Kick a Black Day” or a “National Kick a Jew Day”.
(Thanks to Emma for sending me the link to the story)
Ginger and proud
Tagged ginger, Gingerism, red hair, redhead
Now, clearly this isn’t the classiest post title I’ve ever come up with in my life, but let it be a warning to you folks: if you have “problems” with vomit (you know, like I DO), you’re going to want to skip this one…
So Rubin was ill over the weekend. I could tell on Saturday morning that Something Was Up, because he didn’t freak the hell out to quite the same extent as he normally does when the post arrived in the morning. Like, normally he reaches Excitement Level 10, but he only got to about a 9.5.
“Something is wrong with Rubin,” I told Terry and my parents, who we were visiting that night. “He is ill, is probably dying. Either that or is faking it for sympathy.”
“Pish!” said my peeps. “Is fine. YOU are one who is faking it. Rubin in rude health. Lookit him being all healthy!”
But I knew I was right, and so when he suddenly and extravagantly threw up the next day, all over his bed, I was not at all surprised, and I would have phoned my dad to say “I told you so!” if I hadn’t been too busy gagging at the time. Dad, if you’re reading this, though: I TOLD YOU SO.
Anyway, we washed Rubin’s bed (by “we”, I obviously mean “Terry”, by the way), and gave him an old towel to lie on while it dried, because, well, if he’d been sick once, chances were he would be sick again, and sure enough, not an hour later, that old towel was also making its way through a spin cycle, and Terry was once more down on his hands and knees, scrubbing vomit from the floors.
I, meanwhile, took Rubin out into the garden. You know, just in case. He issued out of the back door with all guns blazing, and proceeded to bark enthusiastically and hysterically at the imaginary postwoman who lives at our back gate, so I assumed he was feeling better. “Is better,” I told myself. “Whatever he’d eaten that didn’t agree with him, it has gone. He is fine now.”
And this was how I came to make my fatal mistake – bringing Rubin back upstairs and settling him down on my knee. ON MY KNEE. My knee, from which, Rubin was perfectly placed to vomit copiously ALL DOWN MY LEG twenty minutes later. GOD.
As this happened, I made my second fatal mistake: lifting him from my knee while he was in mid-vomit. Because my chair was right next to the open doorway of the room. The open doorway which Rubin soon filled with vomit, leaving me trapped in a small room with vomit down my leg and more of it barring my exit.
DID I MENTION I AM NOT GOOD WITH VOMIT?
(I hope you weren’t eating while you were reading this by the way.)
And that was how we spent our Sunday. Rubin is absolutely fine now, so we reckon he must have eaten something, probably while he was outside, ferreting around in the grass. We’re keeping a really close eye on him, needless to say, and are making a tremendous fuss of him, which he has been thoroughly enjoying.
As relaxing Sunday afternoons go, though… well, let’s just say we’ve had better.
Tagged rubin
This week has been full of fail, hence the “no blogging” here at Forever Amber. Sorry. Anyway, the Friday Five! Is back! And is actually quite appropriate this week, so here it is. Feel free to answer the questions too, either in your own blog or in the comments. Peace out.
1. What made you happy this week?
The fact that I now have less than three weeks until my holiday, which, by the way, cannot come soon enough. Also the fact that I managed to go to the gym three times, after a two week absence which had absolutely nothing to do with the body pump instructor telling me I had “wee short legs” the last time I was there. Because, hello! I totally do NOT have “wee short legs”! Well, OK, I DO, because I, myself, am short. But my legs are actually NOT particularly short in proportion to my body. This is why I am able to buy tops from the “petite” sections in stores, but not bottoms, because they are always too short. On my not-even-remotely-wee-or-short-legs.*
2. What made you sad?
The weather. It made me S.A.D. And it also rendered me totally unable to get out of bed in the morning, to the extent that I can no longer get up in time for my regular gym classes, and have to actually go – gasp! – into the actual gym instead. And I HATE the Actual Gym. Gah.
3. What made you angry?
Oh God, do not even get me started. What made me angry was being libelled on the internet by a paranoid delusional, who wrote an entire post on his blog calling me and my fellow writers a lot of extremely unpleasant names, and accusing us of being dastardly, James Bond-style internet villains. And then a lot of people commented, agreeing with him and advocating violence against us “bitches”. That made me a bit angry, yes.
(No, I am not linking to the post. It wasn’t about any of my blogs, it was about a client’s blog, and they are dealing with it. I was mentioned by name, though, which made it all feel a little bit personal. And I’m not very good at being-attacked-and-not-hitting-back.)
4. What are you looking forward to in the next week?
The fact that I will have only two weeks to go until my holiday. TWO WEEKS. Until my HOLIDAY. Did I mention that I was going on holiday? Did I? Because I am going on holiday. In just over two weeks. And then I will have SUNSHINE and I will have LOTS OF FOOD and I will have absolutely NO internet drama to deal with. Bliss.
5. What are you not looking forward to?
The fact that I still have a month’s worth of advance posts to write before my holiday. And Christmas presents to wrap. And a haircut to arrange. And STUFF to buy. I need to go shopping. I need to go to the post office. I need to basically do all of December’s work and chores in the next two weeks, and OMG how will I do it? I’m going to be needing some strong, strong coffee, that’s for sure…
* Note: not that there is anything wrong with having wee, short legs, of course.
Tagged friday five, internet drama
Well, folks, I got nothin’ here. Seriously, I’m having to rack up so many blog posts in advance, so that I can go on holiday and still get paid, that there is absolutely nothing else going on my life right now. And so it is that I have once again opened up The News Book and am allowing my six-year-old self to write today’s post. If only I had known at the time that I would one day end up doing this, I could have quit right there and saved my parents that expensive university education they gave me. But anyway!
This post is one I call simply “pants”:
The text reads:
“Tuesday 22nd February
I went to the Doctors for a check up he was a nice Doctor he sed that I was growing up when I came out of the Doctors my mum got me some new pantes I was needing them I am good at panting picturs of my mummy and daddy I can paint a dog”
Still having that old “punctuation is for sissies” issue, then, eh?
What’s interesting about this, though, isn’t the fact that I spoke fluent LOLCat as a child, or, indeed, that I suddenly remembered that “paint” has an “i” in it, right in the final moments of the “story”, having referred to my new paints as “pants” throughout. No, what’s interesting about this one is the fact that I chose to illustrate the exciting tale of my new “pants” with a “pictur” of my bedroom, which apparently contained a large, caged beast:
 Amber and the Beast Now, if you’ve read Part Two of this series, in which Rusty gets a frite and Snoopy does the toylet in the cichon, you’re probably thinking this beast is either Snoopy or Rusty, those bad, toylet-doing dogs, right?
But no. I gave no explanation of the presence of The Beast in this image, but if memory serves, this would be Coco. My hamster. He was a big ‘un, wasn’t he? Roughly the size of a small bear, I’d say.
I have absolutely no explanation for the … thing… I’m holding in my hand, mind you. Absolutely none. The juxtaposition of beast-in-giant-cage and me with… thing… is actually quite disturbing, though. I really hope PETA don’t read this…
P.S. Note, too, that I drew my own “star” on the pictur. Just, you know, in case the teacher forgot…
Tagged Forever Amber: the early years, old diaries
Remember how last week I started doing The Friday Five again and I was all, “I am going to do this every Friday now for the rest of my life, only maybe not”?
You all thought I forgot yesterday, didn’t you?
Well I did not! No, I did not forget The Friday Five, but it seems The Friday Five forgot me, because the website I get the questions from didn’t get updated at all yesterday. And hasn’t been updated today either, at the time of writing. So, what basically seems to have happened is that I started doing The Friday Five, and The Friday Five stopped. Maybe forever. So, in other words, I broke The Friday Five. GOD.
Instead, here is a Random Act of Stupidity that took place in the early hours of Friday morning, so is still somewhat “Friday” themed…
So, because I am lazy, I have either ordered all my Christmas gifts from the internet, or I have delegated Terry to buy them. Trust me, I totally suck at buying gifts, it’s for the best. On Thursday afternoon, then, one of these packages was delivered, and I opened it, checked the gift inside… then, for reasons that aren’t particularly clear even to me, I placed it back inside the packaging and put the packaging on my desk.
Then, a few hours later, I picked it up, carried it downstairs, and placed it in the recycling bin outside.
The recycling bin that Terry later wheeled down to the bottom of the driveway, for collection in the early hours of Friday morning.
D’OH!
For some reason, though, luck was on my side that night. This was unusual in itself, because luck is hardly EVER on my side, but suddenly, as I lay drifting off to sleep at about 1am, the image of that parcel came floating into my head. I saw it sitting on my desk. I saw myself walking downstairs with it. I saw, as if from a great distance, my hand reaching out and throwing it in the recycling. And then, with a small shriek, I sat bolt upright and shouted, “OMG! I HAVE THROWN THE PARCEL IN THE BIN!”
Then I lept from the bed and rushed to the window, where I peered down at the dark street outside. Sure enough, there, at the bottom of the driveway, stood the bin, waiting to be collected. I actually have no idea why I went to the window and looked at it, to be honest. I mean, did I think I’d be able to hear the feeble cries of the package as it threw itself helplessly against the sides of the bin, shouting, “let me oooouuuttttt!”? Because I couldn’t.
Anyway, because Terry is a chivalrous gentleman, he volunteered to go to the rescue of the package, so I jumped back into bed and lay there, as snug as a bug in a rug, listening to the sounds of him going outside and rummaging through the rubbish at 1am on a freezing November night, his dressing gown whipping friskily around him as he did so.
He did manage to find it, though. And that’s how it came to pass that one of my friends/family (because it could be either! Hell, it could be yoooouuuu!) will receive a gift that has spent a few hours of its life inside my recycling bin this Christmas.* It’s the thought that counts, no?
* I feel I have to point out that the gift itself was well-wrapped at the time, so it did not suffer for its time inside the bin. And it’s all paper in there anyway. No gifts were injured in the making of this entry, I promise!
Tagged christmas, Random Acts of Stupidity
Remember how earlier this week I was getting in a little bit of advance worrying about tonight’s full moon, and the generous helping of Crazy it would no doubt bring to my life?
I was right to worry.
This morning I woke up to an email from Companies House, who, for the benefit of those of you who don’t like in the UK, or, indeed, run your own business, govern all activity by limited companies in this country. If you run a business you have to be registered with them, and there are all kinds of rules you have to abide by if you don’t want Very Bad Things to happen.
Anyway, as I was saying, this morning I woke up to an email from Companies House, in which they informed me that my business is now under investigation for a possible breach of “Section 82 of the Companies Act 2006″.
So, obviously I immediately died.
When I revived myself, I read on, and discovered that I was being investigated for breaching this Act because a concerned member of the public had reported me for it.
So I died again.
A couple of coffees later (and, OK, brandy), I read on. Helpfully, Companies House had not just started a new email to tell me I was – insert Drum Roll of Doom here – Under Investigashun. No, they had just forwarded on the entire email conversation they’d been having with the person who had reported me. A person who, I was to learn, was accusing me of:
a) owing her money
and
b) being a taxi driver
It was at this point that alarm bells started to ring. I feverishly read the email again, and – YES! – there it was! The woman had not reported me AT ALL! In fact, she had reported a COMPLETLY DIFFERENT COMPANY to Companies House, and OK, it’s a company that has a similar name to mine, but the woman had supplied them with the Company Number AND the website address (which, just to be clear here, was NOT MY WEBSITE ADDRESS), both of which made it perfectly clear that they done got the wrong person. The right person being someone who is NOT ME. And who has nothing to do with me. Whew!
What is totally bizarre about this, is that, having been supplied with the URL of the company the woman was complaining about, Companies House didn’t just visit that URL (I did, and it works) and contact the company in question. No, they apparently hit up Google, searched for a completely different company with a similar-sounding name, and then contacted that person instead. (That person being ME.) Freaking GENIUS, no?
Oh, and as if that wasn’t enough, they also forwarded me a private email conversation between them and the woman who originally contacted them. I now know her name, her email address, and all about how much money she is owed by a third party. Whose details, including their company number, I now ALSO have, thanks to Companies House. I bet that company is thrilled to know that I, Magic Amber, am now party to their dispute!
A good morning’s work by Companies House, then, who have, thankfully, replied to the “WTF?” email I sent them earlier this morning with a “Whoops! No, it’s not YOU that’s under investigation!”. So that’s something.
Incidentally, the woman who wanted to know where her Heidi Klum skin care order was? Never did get back in touch. Magic Amber is pleased to have been of service…
Tagged email fun, I See Stupid People
Lately I’ve noticed a dramatic increase in the number of people mistaking me for God. By that I don’t mean they’re getting down on their knees and worshipping the wonder that is Me, or even that they praise me like they should, just that they think I know EVERYTHING about EVERYTHING.
I know, I know: it’s an easy mistake to make. Am authoritative figure, obviously! So every day I get a whole bunch of emails via The Fashion Police , saying stuff like, “Dear Magic Amber, OMG, I really want a pair of boots that you wrote about in 2006, I have seriously looked at every website on the internet for them, and I can’t find them anywhere, but I know you will be able to find them for me!”
And I’ll be all, “Umm, no, I won’t. Because I am not made of magic, and if you’ve already looked EVERYWHERE with no luck, it’s unlikely I’ll have much luck either, on account of the fact that previously hidden boots do not suddenly become visible to the All Seeing Eye of Amber the Omniscient”. And also because the boots are always from somewhere like Topshop, or Dorothy Perkins, or some other high street store, and trust me, if THEY don’t still stock their own boots three years later, no one else will, either.
Because I am all about helping people, though, (Am benevolent Divine Being), I will generally try and suggest alternatives if I can think of any, before giving in and saying, “Dude: eBay.” (The ones who email me saying, “OK, I’m looking for thigh high boots that are purple with orange spots on, and come in a UK size 12 with a square toe, a heel that is exactly 4.2″ high, but which don’t look trashy, and are also really comfortable. Oh, and I’m a man, so they need to have extra-wide thighs. Where can I get them?”, on the other hand, I tend just to send directly to eBay. They should pay me commission).
So, the “where can I find X” emails, I don’t mind. After all, I know only too well what it’s like to find yourself desperately in need of a certain coat/shoe/dress/purse-shaped-like-a-bichon-frise, only to discover that you can’t find it anywhere. And when that happens, you will try anything, even emailing bloggers, if you think it will help light your path to The Prechus.
No, it’s the “I can’t tell the difference between someone selling an item and someone just writing about it” emails that bother me. The Fashion Police gets its fair share of these, but most of them come to Hey, Dollface, which, for the benefit of those of you not obsessively following my every move, is my beauty blog, which I use to review beauty products, write about beauty products I WANT to review, and generally worship at the altar of Sephora.
Now, back in March of this year, Heidi Klum released her own skincare line, and I totally bet she was up for weeks on end, mixing potions, gathering ingredients by the light of the full moon and chanting incantations over a cauldron, in order to produce a face cream that claims to make you look exactly like her. OK, not really, but that would’ve been a helluva lot more interesting than what I actually wrote about this event, which can be read here, but which basically says, “Heidi Klum has released a skincare line. There are face creams in it.”
(Incidentally, the only comment on that post is also good for a laugh if you’re bored.)
This morning, I received this email:
—–Original Message—–
From: XXXXXXX
Sent: 11 November 2008 01:16
To: Magic Amber
Subject: info commercial order
I ordered Heidi’s skin care line form an info commercial on Sunday October 25th 2008. The advertisement stated it was a rush delivery for no fee upgrade and would be delivered in 7-10 business day. It is now over two weeks since I ordered the product and I am still waiting for it. Please advise me on where my order is.
[Name removed to protect the guilty]
So, either this woman thinks I am Heidi Klum, in which case my life’s work is complete, or she thinks I can look inside the minds of the un-named company who sold her this product, and find out where her order is. And that I can do this without any other information whatsoever on this, not even an order number or anything. (I somehow doubt the company in question, whoever they are, only sold one product on Sunday, October 28th, and are able to track that product knowing only the name of the person who bought it). Because I am magic.
Of course, I replied to the email, letting the woman know that I have no freaking idea where her order is, or, indeed, why she’s even asking me about it, but I somehow doubt I’ve heard the last of this. After all, Thursday is a full moon, and you know what THAT normally means…
Seriously, though, I get this kind of thing ALL the time, along with slight variations on the theme, such as the company who are currently hell bent on trying to get me to bulk-buy “police gloves” from them, because they apparently believe The Fashion Police is a real police force, that is in need of gloves. Either I fail really badly at making it clear to readers that I am not a retailer/actual “police” officer, or a lot of people are… not all that bright.
I’ll let you decide which it is. In the meantime, I’m off to make myself a tinfoil helmet in preparation for Thursday’s full moon…
Tagged email fun, I am not a shop, magic amber
A quick note to the people in our town who are still setting off fireworks every single night, even although Guy Fawkes Night was four days ago: please, just get over it. My dog is losing his tiny mind here. I am losing my tiny mind here. Enough, already. Please.
And, you know, I get that people like fireworks. I do, really. Hell, I even like fireworks myself. The thing about fireworks, though, is that unless you’re at EPCOT, or at the Magic Kingdom (Seriously, when the single “star” goes shooting over the top of the Cinderella castle? I could weep.), fireworks tend to get old pretty quickly for me. Especially when they’re not even particularly interesting fireworks, but are just those monotonous old bangers that make a lot of noise without actually doing very much else. You could watch that happen maybe once or twice, and it might be kinda cool, but when it’s been happening every. single. night. for two weeks, you get to wondering whether all those loud noises done blew these people’s brains out, ya know?
Actually, to be fair, this year has been a little better than previous years, in that it’s only been going on for a couple of weeks, as opposed to the entire months of October, November and December. The problem is, though, that people around here find bangers so very exciting and compelling that they’ll be out every night until the end of the year now, grunting and going, “BIG NOISE! WE MAKES IT! BANG!”, Rubin will be all, “Hysterical! Hysterical! Any excuse to bark my fool head off!” and I’ll be all, “whiney, whine-whine, moan, moan, moan.” Until January.
And the irony is, after the first couple of big bangs, Rubin gets used to it and shuts the hell up. I never do, though…
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