The notion of a “tortured genius” or “mad scientist” may be more than a romantic aberration. Research shows that bipolar disorder and schizophrenia correlate with high creativity and intelligence, raising tantalizing questions: What role does environment play in the path to mental illness? Are so-called mental defects being positively selected for in the gene pool? Where’s the line between gift and deficit? As studies mount supporting the storied link between special aptitudes and mental illnesses, science is reexamining the shifting spectrum between brilliance and madness.

There was some scientific discussion, but that’s not what made it so fascinating. Most fascinating were the mental illnesses that the panel members live with and their discussions of those experiences: Kay Redfield Jamison of course lives with (and has thus far survived) bipolar disorder and is a tenured professor at Johns Hopkins; Elyn Saks lives with schizophrenia (“coming out” with her book, after receiving tenure at USC, as a law professor); James Fallon lives with a highly sociopathic brain and is a professor at UC Irvine, and after being charmed by him I started being creeped-out by him. All three are of course brilliant and creative academics; two have won MacArthur Genius Grants, and two have written books about their experiences. Fallon kept glibly talking about how he turns his mental illness to good, how it’s not bad for him, and that’s what people with mental illness should do, turn it to good. When he’d be saying that, the women looked at the floor. (Actually, most of the time he talked [very loudly] the women looked at the floor.) He liked to show images — PET scans, cross-sections of brains with colored shapes overlaid — I know how to look at those things and couldn’t make heads or tails of them.

What made the show so wonderful was thinking about madness, and listening to the women talk about their experiences — especially Elyn (whose book I want to read: The Center Cannot Hold: My Journey Through Madness). I already read Jamison’s An Unquiet Mind, Touched with Fire, and Night Falls Fast, so I knew a lot of her experience. Also, I’ve had close relationships with two people who experienced severe mania so I have a feel for the terrifying texture of that, once it gets past the giddy state. But schizophrenia? My only experience with schizophrenia is the standard New Yorker experience of encountering them on the street all the time. We have our neighborhood schizophrenics (one shouts all night, trying with all his might to bring everyone to God; one does pushups on the median strip on Broadway and strolls around in his purple robe) and we encounter them on the subway. Actually, last week I encountered the most mad person I’ve ever been near. The train stopped and when the doors opened, there he stood. He was young, and very beautiful, with dark curly hair and dark eyes, a handsome face. And his hair was tied in little ponytails all over his head, his top was flopped down and tied around his waist so his chest was bare, he wore some combination of bright pink flannel pants and several other pants, a whole bunch of them. But it was his eyes — they glittered. You read that in books sometimes, but his really did. They glittered. And he laughed constantly, and it was the laugh of a wholly mad person.  He sat down right across from me and his eyes kept skittering from side to side, then he’d see something, his hallucination, and do that laugh. He held a paper cup filled with something, I couldn’t tell, and my skin tightened, watching him. It was frightening in some inarticulable way, being next to someone who was so very mad, in that way.

Last night the show opened with a short film, three people playing mad and voicing the words of Virginia Woolf, Keats, Hemingway, Schumann, Poe, other famous creative people who suffered with mental illness. It made me think about being mad, and what that means in an experiential way. There are boundaries beyond which mad is mad, like the boy on the subway, but there is mad that lives shy of that boundary too. During one period of profound depression, I believed I smelled dead. I kept asking my husband to smell my arm, and I couldn’t take enough showers to get rid of the smell. I knew I smelled dead, and I knew that everyone else could smell it too. Then I started knowing that I was already dead and didn’t understand why people couldn’t tell. I have seen things, knowing they’re not “really” there but they are very real: tall gray men surrounding me, cats running past, men on the street. I see some of them still, and I am not mad. The olfactory hallucination is common with profoundly depressed people, and when my depression was treated the smell went away. But the rest, the visual stuff? Yeah, I see them now and then and they do not scare me, but I know they are not there. So what does that mean?

In a prospective study in Sweden, 700,000 16-year-old kids were tested for all kinds of things, including IQ. Ten years later, those with the higher IQs were four times more likely to have mental illness, especially (if I remember this detail correctly) bipolar disorder. Four times more likely. There are a great many statistical associations between intelligence, creativity, and mental illness, and of course they can only be associations so there’s actually very little that we can say about it. Those characteristics go together in some way — cause, effect? No idea. Each other, some third (or fourth, or fifth, or combination) fact causing? No idea.

This is one of my favorite things to think about; not the causation question, but the question of madness. Aren’t creative people mad in some tiny little way to be able to make up something brand new? That’s the banal question. But the metaphysical questions, not at all banal. Elyn Saks was a philosophy major, and she said the questions that philosophers ask, mad people experience. I wish I’d written them down because her specific questions would be more pointed than what I’d make up here, but the point is that this issue gets at the most fascinating questions for me.

And then the bus never came and I couldn’t get a cab and I ended up cursing at the universe trying to get home. Life in New York City!

The notion of a “tortured genius” or “mad scientist” may be more than a romantic aberration. Research shows that bipolar disorder and schizophrenia correlate with high creativity and intelligence, raising tantalizing questions: What role does environment play in the path to mental illness? Are so-called mental defects being positively selected for in the gene pool? Where’s the line between gift and deficit? As studies mount supporting the storied link between special aptitudes and mental illnesses, science is reexamining the shifting spectrum between brilliance and madness.

The panel is led by Cynthia McFadden, and panelists include James Fallon (neuroscientist), Kay Redfield Jamison (psychologist, writer, bipolar), Susan McKeown (singer from Dublin), and Elyn Saks (mental health law professor, schizophrenic). It’s going to be interesting, I hope! I’ll report tomorrow. In the meantime, though, here’s the neuroscientist James Fallon talking about his research on The Moth — so much fun! Turns out he had a shocking experience when he looked at his own brain scan as he studied sociopaths. And he still has his Teamster’s card, just in case the whole academic thing doesn’t work out. It’s really fun — watch, if you have time!

I just love this image -- it really has nothing to do with the post.

I know this is the title of the post, but it needs to be restated here because it’s important and maybe you don’t really look at the titles of posts. I am a lot. I know this about myself. It’s been said that way to me before, but another way to say it would be that I’m intense. Last night my husband commented somewhat randomly that I experience joy and sorrow more often than he does; I’m not sure what he was thinking about that prompted him to say this, we were watching the first episode of the Hatfields and McCoys (meh, by the way). (Now that I think about it, maybe it was because I cracked up so hard at one of the lines — “well ain’t you ornery for a cripple” — that I wrote it down so I wouldn’t forget it. Maybe that’s why he said it.)

The word intense may cover it, and I can indeed be intense, but I think “a lot” is a better way to put it. This is who I am, I think: when we’re talking, I lean in and pay all my attention to you. I am curious about most things (but could not care less about things like the stock market or sports), so if you are talking about something I already know about I’ll chime in excitedly, and if you’re talking about something I don’t know anything about, I’ll chime in excitedly with questions. I’m passionate about a lot of things. I know a lot of things, in an encyclopedia kind of way (maybe because I read the World Book over and over as a kid, from A to Z) (and the dictionary too) (lots of us kids did that I know). I tend to feel things deeply, whatever they are — joy, sorrow, curiosity, everything. I’m never ever bored and can’t understand what that means, or what people mean when they say it. When we talk, I want to really talk to you. I never knew this until I saw a photo of myself (which left me feeling kind of sick and aghast), but when I’m listening and engaged, I’m frowning so hard and I don’t like the look of that, it’s too intense and angry-looking, even though I’m not at all angry! I’m engaged and thinking hard about what I’m hearing. So I’m trying to become aware of that, and relax my face when I’m listening intently.

yeah. cannot do it.

I have intense and vivid dreams, and I enjoy talking about mine, and yours. I enjoy plumbing them for whatever they might mean to the dreamer. I prefer to talk about meaning-and-experience-of-life subjects than party topics; I prefer to talk about what’s going on for you, how your life is, what you’re thinking about these days, what you’re reading, what that means to you, and I’ll talk about the same stuff. (This is why I suck at parties. Someone will strike up a casual conversation and then I say something that’s inappropriate, something too big, and the person gets a kind of horrified expression and drifts away. I do not understand small talk; it feels like bullshit and like we both know it’s bullshit so we’re both standing there playing some game together and we both know it. I am definitely wrong about this!! Small talk is important, it gets things going. I just don’t get it and can’t do it.)

My life has also — somehow — had more than its fair share of big dramatic things. I don’t think I’m a drama-seeker, even though I am a lot. Maybe it’s just the consequence of the kind of family I came from and the consequences of what they did, both the nature and the nurture bits.

I used to feel terrible and ashamed when someone said something to me like “wow, you’re really a lot, aren’t you?” It made me feel terrible, and like a freak. This is a good thing about aging, because now I just know this is who I am, and it’s fine to be this way, and if I am too much for someone for whatever reason that’s ok, they’ll disengage and drift away (or maybe leave abruptly) but I am who I am and it’s just fine. And they don’t have to like me, and I’m fine with that too. Finally.

Or perhaps this one — I grew up sleeping on pallets at Big Daddy’s:

I love guitar picking, and have picked many an hour in my lifetime. He warranted this farewell in the NYTimes. I saw him perform live once, and it was magical. Thanks universe, for putting Doc in the world while I was around.

c'mon may!

And it felt like this too — constantly overcast, drizzly, gray. Never a lot of rain, just hanging in the air, dripping a little here and there, an occasional shower, eternal gray skies. The sunny days tended to be on Saturdays, at least.

Last night was book club, always fun, even though it’s a fight to get any conversation about the book. I felt mixed about it last night, since I’d only read half the book (Pale King, David Foster Wallace, a musing on boredom via workers at the IRS). But still, even though I only read half, I read half, and found stuff to talk about. It’s always disappointing when we don’t discuss the book, even though I adore every single woman in the group and feel so glad to see them, and catch up on their always-interesting lives. I’m in the middle of reading On Writing: A Memoir of the Craft, by Stephen King, and I’ll tell you: it’s just wonderful. I’m only now at the point where he starts talking about the craft of writing — the first third or so is more of a memoir, and he’s just such a charming memoirist. He tells the truth….he was an alcoholic and drug addict….but it’s not the point of the memoir so he doesn’t go into much detail. But the stories of his childhood are told in the most wonderful way, not shrinking from the hardship or endowing it with humble glory either. Reading it makes me want to just sit down with him and have a Coke. Talk for a while. I want to meet his wife Tabitha, theirs is such a great love story. So I recommend the book if you’re in the market for something that’s an easy read, but still meaty.

I hit a very busy patch of work and fell behind on my letter writing, but I got an absolutely wonderful letter handwritten (beautifully) on Country Inn & Suites letterhead, and one from Stephen Elliott, author of a whole bunch of books and founder of The Rumpus, and another from MariNaomi, a San Francisco artist and writer. And I have my list of people, many of whom haven’t even gotten a first letter yet! So hang on little tomato, the letter writing begins again today. Happy Wednesday, y’all!

see the word? or do you see the face?

Of course we all do it. I do it, you do it, our kids and parents do it, all the time. And because we recognize this, we have classes — lies that are ok to tell, “white lies,” and then the others. I think it’s so funny that even though we all lie, we can feel so self-righteously aghast when someone lies to us! And shocked, and how could you. Liar.

And very close to lying: cheating. Cheating on a test, cheating on a partner, cheating by not telling the cashier she gave you too much change, cheating by loading up on Splenda packets when you go to Starbucks so you don’t have to buy them at home, lying by not telling her that you got an email from an old girlfriend again, cheating on your diet, it’s all so common it’s boring.

We tend, I believe, to think of it as something of an on-off variable — he’s a cheater, or he’s not. (I’m not sure if we do the same thing with lying; maybe we’re too keenly aware of how we lie our own heads off and that forces us to recognize the gray scale.) This morning I read this very interesting article about why we lie; it opened with a great quote by a locksmith, that locks are on doors to keep honest people honest. And immediately I thought of something that happened to me last night. I was going to see Moonrise Kingdom and stopped by the drugstore, thinking I’d grab a little bag of jellybeans. My dilemma is that I didn’t want to do  that, because I’m trying to lose a few pounds before we go to Oaxaca and I have to put my fish-belly-whiteness in a bathing suit; I can’t change the white, but I can at least make it not jiggle so much. So I didn’t want to get jellybeans, but I love jellybeans. And I went to the drugstore to get them. I stood there, held the little bag, looked at the calorie count (gasped, literally), put them back on the peg, picked them up again, deliberated, and went to buy them. And when I rounded the corner, the line was so long — a constant at this particular drugstore — that I decided to hell with it, and walked out the door without the jellybeans.

So all that kept me from cheating was the lock on the door. Had the line been a lot shorter, I’d have bought them, cheated myself against my goal. That’s the very thing the article discusses, the incremental easy-to-do-it small lies and cheats we’re all so willing to do. And if we set aside our default knee-jerk ideas that “lying is morally wrong,” “cheating is always bad,” it’s a question worth asking. Is it? Is it always wrong, or bad? At the far end of the spectrum, I’m sure we’d all agree (but maybe not). Cheating on your spouse is wrong, it’s always wrong. Always. But what if her husband beats her up all the time and belittles her and is cruel to her, and she develops a relationship that slips into cheating but he’s the one who helps her have the courage to leave the abuser? Wrong? It’d be great if she could have left without cheating, but she couldn’t. Everyone tried to help her, even the cops, but she couldn’t do it.

A dark topic for a holiday Monday, but the article came along and I was thinking about jellybeans, so there you go. Have a wonderful Memorial Day y’all!

OH how I loved Chicago, back then. And like all the music from the 70s, important to the soundtrack of my life. It’s funny [to me] how very happy music can be the soundtrack to misery….but still feel happy. When this song was popular (and I was loving it), my life could hardly have been more difficult. My drunk father kept trying hard to kill me, nearly succeeding a couple of times. I spent many a long night in neighborhood parks, hiding underneath bushes, shaking and hoping he couldn’t find me. And yet this happy song about a Saturday in a park makes me feel so happy now, and it did back then, too. Really strange. I remember feeling special because I “got” the meaning of the song title “25 or 6 to 4,” and took every opportunity to ask people if they knew what it meant, so I could casually show off.

And on this spring Saturday, I’m off to the park. And to shop for my trip to Oaxaca — a couple of new shirts, a breezy skirt, a pair of sandals — and to the quilt store for fabric for my grandbaby’s quilt, and to walk around Soho taking it all in. It’s adventure day for me. And when I finish all that, home to work on my memoir. What I really mean by “work” is “play,” but you wouldn’t immediately know what I meant if I said play on my memoir.

I hope it’s a happy Saturday for you, park or not. xoL

Pretty Marnie, in her senior year at Smith

My girl Marnie is the new the publication designer for Cricket magazine’s science and literature magazines, Muse and Cicada. Muse is science for kids ages 9+, and Cicada is a literary magazine for young adults. Cricket has a bunch of amazing, award-winning books and magazines, but in my opinion Muse and Cicada would be the cream of the crop. And now they have the cream of the crop as their new publication designer!

It’s been so hard to keep this under my hat, just as it was so hard not to tell that Katie was pregnant. I’m bad about keeping such happy secrets — well, I guess I’m good at it, I kept them, but it’s really hard because I want to shout from the top of the Chrysler Building.

This is how she announced it on facebook:

“Count this a victory for all us dreamers and “unconventional candidates:” I just landed my dream job. A decade of doing nothing practically (philosophy major? art grad school…drop out?) and I am now (soon) the publication designer for Cricket magazine’s science and literature magazines, Muse and Cicada. Lay out designs, illustrations, and planning “McSweeney’s-like” book objects for super smart kids with super nice people. YES!”

Of course her friends tended to remind her that she hasn’t been doing nothing, but I take her point, it’s more connected to the dreamer part, the unconventional path part. So if you know any dreamers and unconventionally-pathed people (artists, usually), and they feel discouraged, as the dreamers do now and then, here’s one for them. Congratulations, my dear daughter.

she's such a cute one, on top of everything else!

I’ve mentioned Read It Later (now known as Pocket, for some silly reason), which is an app that lets you collect things online that you want to read — and obviously you keep them on your phone. So it’s a movable bookmark feast, in a way. I’ll see something, click it, see that it’s pretty long and looks interesting but I don’t have time right now, and click! There it is, waiting in my app. The problem is that I’ve been trying to finish reading a bunch of books lately, so in my rare subway time, instead of catching up on the articles I just read the book (and the same thing in the middle of the night). They’re all still there, waiting, and I thought I’d share a few in case the titles grab you for one reason or another. This represents ~1/8 of what I’ve collected, maybe 1/10, I’m bad at visual estimates of things. I was going to do a little annotation of each one, a little summary, a little “value add” as they say in consulting, but I’ve got no time.

• Do You Have the Moral Compass of a Toddler? | Floating University | Big Thi
• On the Trail of an Intercontinental Killer – NYTimes.com
• In Which We Get You Writing Something Dark And Very Disturbed – Home – This
• In Which These Are The 100 Greatest Writers Of All Time – Home – This Recor
• Guernica / Rachel Holmes: Palestine
• Responses | 2012 Annual Question | Edge
• The Autumn of Joan Didion – Magazine – The Atlantic
• The Architect, The “It” Girl And The Toy Pistol That Wasn’t | The Awl
• The Book Bench: This Week in Fiction: The True Bolaño : The New Yorker
• The Book Bench: In the Labyrinth: A User’s Guide to Bolaño : The New Yorker
• Writing Adrift in the World by Tim Parks | NYRblog | The New York Review of
• Thirty-One Love Songs [via Longreads]
• When a Web Community Becomes a Book Publisher [via Longreads]
• Can Google Search Our Souls? | Think, See, Feel | Big Think
• Long Story Shortlist, First Edition [via Longreads]
• The Best Food Writing from the James Beard Awards [via Longreads]
• Nearly 100 Fantastic Pieces of Journalism [via Longreads]
• Growing up with a father on the run [via Longreads]
• A Sharper Mind, Middle Age and Beyond – NYTimes.com
• Classical Music Critic Justin Davidson Learns How to Conduct — New York Ma
• The Information Diet: A Case for Conscious Consumption | Brain Pickings
• Death, Italian Style – Best Sendoffs – Obit Magazine
• Emrys Westacott on Philosophy and Everyday Living | FiveBooks | The Browser
• From Andy Warhol to Mark Twain, 400 Years of New York Diaries | Brain Picki
• Killing Jared – Salon.com
• Reservoir Dogs  | Film | Scenic Routes | The A.V. Club
• A Dangerous Method: Jung, Freud, and the Pursuit of Scientific Legitimacy |
• Amazon’s Hit Man – Businessweek
• Salman Rushdie, back on trial – Books – Salon.com
• What Does It Mean To Be Human? A Historical Perspective 1800-2011 | Brain P
• The Moon and Back | New Writing | Granta Magazine
• Lori Arnold – Drug Dealer Story – Playboy Real Life Articles
• Transformation And Transcendence: The Power Of Female Friendship – The Rump
• Motherfuckerland, a New Novel in Installments « Giant Robot
• The child I lost | Life and style | The Observer
• The neuroscience of happiness – Neuroscience – Salon.com
• Self As Symbol – Science News
• It’s Not Me, It’s You – How to End a Friendship – NYTimes.com
• The Sad, Beautiful Fact That We’re All Going To Miss Almost Everything — ww
• On the Meaning of Life
• The divine Ms H [via Longreads]
• My Mom Couldn’t Cook [via Longreads]
• And … Scene [via Longreads]
• The Falling Man [via Longreads]
• Men’s Journal » The Blind Man Who Taught Himself To See » Print
• Chuck Klosterman on Breaking Bad – Grantland
• The Technium: The Clock in the Mountain
• The Epidemic of Mental Illness: Why? by Marcia Angell | The New York Review
• The Illusions of Psychiatry by Marcia Angell | The New York Review of Books
• The Brain on Trial – Magazine – The Atlantic
• David Eagleman and Mysteries of the Brain : The New Yorker
• Wikipedia And The Death Of The Expert | The Awl
• Burn Victim Sam Brown Treated With Virtual-Reality Video Game SnowWorld: Ne
• Rational Irrationality: The New Mitt: Tougher, Shinier, with a Hint of Nixo
• Elmore Leonard: the great American novelist | Books | The Guardian
• Rewired – Association for Psychological Science

They obviously reflect my idiosyncratic interests — books, writers, a bit of psych, some philosophy, some personal storytelling — but maybe you’ll find something fun to read in the mix. If you do, would you summarize it for me so I can cross it off my list? (OH MY GOD, in the 10 seconds since I clicked publish, I added three more stories to the app. Somebody stop me.)

Darwin's own drawing of evolution

For some reason my “charming” little brain is running a loop of Revolution in my mind while I’m writing this. NO, silly little mind, I’m not writing about revolution — even though I’d love for our country to have one — I’m thinking and writing about evolution. What in the world happens in those synapses of mine, I often wonder.

And not just evolution, but evolution of the most mundane order. This is a meta-navel-gazing post, gazing on gazing. I got a really wonderful letter in the mail yesterday (it made my already great day even better!), and one thing the writer mentioned was having first come to my blog when I was doing a lot of knitting, and then something about the evolution of the blog. Well! She couldn’t possibly know this, of course, since it’s one of the rare things I haven’t yet written about, but I’ve been wondering about this very thing, about how you feel about the change. She’s right, my blog has evolved and changed. At some point it became clear enough to me that I edited the “why thrums?” page. A couple of months ago, I drafted a post about it but either got bored by it (always a risk) or something else came up, so I never finished the post.

It’s not just that I’m currently in a slump about knitting. I am, I don’t feel like knitting, it doesn’t grab my minutes like it did, but I think that’s temporary; I’ve gone through periods like that, and it always returns. I have baby things to knit! I have Marnie’s sleeves to knit for her Moby sweater! I’ve got stash a-plenty! I’ve always been a slow enough knitter that my blog had to be fleshed out with other stuff or weeks might pass without a post. I’m not a designer, I’m not a yarn-dyer, just a humble little pattern-following knitter with not nearly enough time, so I filled in the spaces with whatever was on my mind.

The change in my blog, away from being a knitting blog to whatever it is now, is not about having no knitting to report. Even when I do have knitting to report again, one of these days, even when the jazzy feeling for it does return, it’s never again going to be a knitting blog. I’ll post about it when I have something to post, just like I do about everything else, but it’s different now. I often worry that you won’t like me anymore. I get a lot of traffic from Ravelry, and from people searching for knitting-related things, and if you subscribe in a reader, I don’t know that you’re there, you don’t show up in my statcounter. So I worry, because while I do mainly write for myself, the truth is that I write for myself and you. I write differently here than I write privately, because of you, and you make me more reflective because I’m talking to you.

So why the shift? What happened is that I started taking myself a little more seriously. Not too seriously, I hope; I want to have and keep a sense of humor about myself, but taking myself seriously means going ahead and writing about the things I think about instead of just throwing up something pretty — pay no attention to the writer, look at this red thing, pretty!  Trying to write every day (except for the weekends, usually) has made me a better writer, though I’m still way too fond of the comma splice. Bad writer, Lori, stay away from the comma splice. Who am I? I love words, obviously. I have a bit of logorrhea, a need to verbalize. I read a lot and love to think about books, and characters. I watch tv that is novelistic, like Mad Men. A friend asked me why I love the show and this was part of my answer, pasted here since it’s relevant:

The characters are all so deeply flawed as human beings, and grapple with their conflicts in a way that resonates with me. Don’s broken identity, his re-creation of a whole new self, his shame, his compartmentalization, I get it. So Don makes so much sense to me as a character, and I find him compelling, the inside of Don. It makes me happy to watch it in the way it makes me happy to read a novel that explores identity…..not haha happy, obviously, but deeply satisfied happy, because I love little more than thinking about these specific things. The show’s creator has said repeatedly that the show is about how people live with change; even big social and cultural change doesn’t usually happen to people in that way, it’s a series of tiny things, little moments, and how do people live with change? How do people negotiate that, the tiny trickle that’s coming from a big hole in the dam much farther upstream? The characters have deep longings for things and frequently fuck it up so they cannot get what they most long for. They derail themselves, and as someone who also does that, who participates oh-so-fully in the human condition, it makes me feel my own humanity, and I always love that. And sometimes they get what they want…..and then what? It’s never just as simple as all that.

(She told me I should write a post about Mad Men, so there you go!) So anyway, I decided to be who I am here, a bit more fully. I imagine some of you who really just like the knitting stuff will drift away, and I will miss you, I really will. It’s fun being who are you, as long as you like who you are, and I’m having a lot of fun here. Thank you for visiting, for reading, for letting me know in the various ways you do that you get something from my posts now and then, and for those of you who comment — wowie, I admire you because I read blogs and even when I love a post I rarely comment — thank you for that extra bit of connection. Occasionally someone will ask if I mind if they send a link to my blog to a friend of theirs…are you kidding? As long as he’s not Ted Kaczynski, please share!

Hey. Now that I think about it, Revolution isn’t such a bad bit of soundtrack for this post after all. Sorry for being a little slow, crazy mind of mine. Happy Thursday, y’all.