Twenty Somethings

Lock Your Pantry, or I Will Break In And EAT EVERYTHING

noreply@blogger.com (JUST ME) — Wed, 11 Nov 2009 03:28:00 +0000

Why must My Special Time Every Month

come complete with an insatiable hunger for chocolate?

It took a 100 Calorie Kudos bar and snacksize Milky Way shoved into my mouth in rapid succession before I realized that I might have just been visited by Aunt Flo today.

(See how I'm trying to keep this metaphoric? It's for the guys. I know you all have a hard time believing this process actually occurs...)

Has anyone ever figured out why certain unfortunate souls like myself crave fountains of sugar during this time? At least I don't get psychotic and yell at random people on the street like a girl I know. Or collapse onto the floor and tell everyone I'm ugly - like another girl I know.

Most of the time I just get a little weepy at insurance commercials and crave massive amounts of calories.

We Just Called To Politely Tell You It Sucks

noreply@blogger.com (JUST ME) — Mon, 09 Nov 2009 19:32:00 +0000

So this morning,

right in between bites of toast and True Life,

I got a call from a guy who works at a big Production Company in LA.

He read one of my scripts.

(Right here is where I begin freaking out. Because...no one ever CALLS you on the phone unless they want to make you famous and take you away from your dirty house and $200 a week paycheck and change your life forever...)

But he didn't really like the script.

"The tone was uneven" and he didn't think the characters were "that original."

He called to tell me it was good

but not good enough.

Which made me sit in silence for ten minutes after he hung up. I didn't try to get him to read something else. I didn't try to convince him that I was actually talented. I just let him say what he had to say and thanked him and hung up and blinked at my half-eaten piece of toast. Because what do you do when someone calls you personally, just to tell you they're not interested?

Sarcastic? Me?!

noreply@blogger.com (JUST ME) — Mon, 09 Nov 2009 02:11:00 +0000

You know what I can't live without?
Roommates who are dirty.

Oh yeah. I mean, what's better than dishes that've been sitting in the sink for a week?! Dishes crusty with disgusting cheese shit and Tupperware so moldy it smells like baby crap that's been left in the sun for a few days? What's better than that?!

You know what else I can't live without?

Cilantro

This little herb is a HUGE pain in the ass. It ruins everything. Every single goddamn piece of food it touches. Burrito? Awesome. Until you put sprigs of Cilantro on it, rendering it inedible. Nice Italian meal? Delicious. Then you add Cilantro and it becomes poison.

You know the third thing I can't live without?

Chapstick that makes my lips even more chapped.

I mean, this is like the best product ever. Come the beginning of wintertime each year, my lips begin to get a little flaky and I think, welp, time for some lubrication! And then I make my way to the drug store or grocery store and stare at the millions of chapsticks and try to buy one that, unlike the LAST product, won't make my lips more of a mess than they already were. But guess what? It never works. Every single chapstick I try goes on smooth, but then like an asshole boyfriend, secretly fucks with things until I wake up and realize it's like the Sahara Desert over here and I have no other recourse except constantly licking my lips like a weird child molester at Disney World.

I could go on.

But I'm too pissed off.

(This post is a part of 20SB’s Blog Carnival: Can’t Live Without, and Alice.com is awarding prizes to lucky bloggers and readers!)

Naturally

noreply@blogger.com (JUST ME) — Fri, 06 Nov 2009 06:02:00 +0000

I've dodged the cold, and the flu.

For now.

I Emergen-Ced myself until I felt like puking.

Slammed back Ecanasia pill after Ecanasia pill.

Practiced positive thinking (which, we all know, for me, takes CONCENTRATION).

And basically forced myself into health.

The only current problem is that my body doesn't seem to want to let this UTI

go.

So I've turned to natural medicine. That's right. I'm to the point where I'll try anything -- even a bunch of herbs stuffed into giant capsules with slightly poopy aftertastes. I'll do it because I'm just fucking S-I-C-K of being sick.

My whole life, it's been me and my health in a cage match. Sometimes I win, sometimes I don't, but for as long as I can remember, it's been a struggle to find a week where something isn't going haywire. I've got some real medical issues (like the ability to be driven insane by men in pointy shoes), but I've also got a history of being attacked by tons of tiny things,

...things like a UTI that wants to stick around for an entire month.

So yes. I've turned to the hippie world of plants and teas and crushed up blackness in a bowl that tastes like sour broccoli dipped in paint -- but I've done it because I'm tired of being a victim. I'm tired of antibiotics, emergency rooms, prescriptions, shots, surgeries, and doctors who have a negative 8 in the bedside manner department.

Whatever happens, happens. But it's sure to be an improvement on the current situation.

Bring on the poopy horse pills.

Listen To Me, Glands

noreply@blogger.com (JUST ME) — Wed, 04 Nov 2009 02:47:00 +0000

I will not get sick, I will not get sick, I will not get sick, I will not get sick, I will not get sick, I will not get sick, I will not get sick, I will not get sick, I will not get sick, I will not get sick, I will not get sick, I will not get sick, I will not get sick, I will not get sick, I will not get sick, I will not get sick, I will not get sick, I will not get sick, I will not get sick, I will not get sick, I will not get sick, I will not get sick, I will not get sick, I will not get sick, I will not get sick, I will not get sick, I will not get sick, I will not get sick, I will not get sick, I will not get sick, I will not get sick, I will not get sick, I will not get sick, I will not get sick, I will not get sick, I will not get sick, I will not get sick, I will not get sick, I will not get sick, I will not get sick, I will not get sick, I will not get sick, I will not get sick, I will not get sick, I will not get sick.

Got it?

Because I'll be FUCKED if my second UTI in a month is followed by my second cold in a month.

Nobody should be allowed to get repeats of the same sickness. At least nobody who lives in a first world country with drugstores and hand sanitizers and a billion medicines to ward off infections. It's not like I dance around naked in the cold with wet hair while shoving dirt in my mouth. I live a very healthy lifestyle.

So no. I'm NOT getting sick.

Keepin' It In The Family (ER Visits, That Is)

noreply@blogger.com (JUST ME) — Mon, 02 Nov 2009 22:40:00 +0000

Here's some advice:

Never start a sentence with "Now, don't freak out, but..."

Because invariably, the person will freak out because you said not to. I did. Especially when my dad followed that first statement with, "I had to take your mom to the hospital."

She had Appendicitis -- which isn't that big of a deal -- but as soon as the words "your mom" and "hospital" were uttered in the same sentence, I pictured every.single. horrible thing that could ever happen to her. In under 2 seconds, I had 100 different ways she could have been hurt, maimed, or worse shooting across my brain.

Obviously, I have a tendency to flip out.

The thing is, if I lost either of my parents right now, I'd be completely dead in the water. There are vital, adult things I don't know how to do. Like deal with scary insurance people, refinance a house, mortgage a house (I have no idea what to do with houses), roast a Thanksgiving turkey, mount a TV...

They can't leave me for a very, very long time.

Accidentally on Purpose

noreply@blogger.com (JUST ME) — Mon, 02 Nov 2009 04:36:00 +0000

"Why don't we plug the acoustic in? We'll hear it better," she said.

"Because it's a lot of work," he puffed. No work on Sunday."

"It'll take two seconds. "

"Look, we do things differently. I love you, but - "

He smiled, and then looked down at the floor, like a kid who's just caught someone naked.

"That kinda slipped out."

No one spoke about the accidental ILY for the rest of the day,

but she knew,

that he knew,

that she knew,

he loved her for real.

The Eve of All Hallows Eve

noreply@blogger.com (JUST ME) — Fri, 30 Oct 2009 23:10:00 +0000

I'm on heavy antibiotics due to my wild adventure at the ER this week.

I'm also going to a party tonight where you PAY $20 to get 3 drink tickets.

If someone makes me shell out $20, it's a damn sure thing that I'll be drinking.

Here's hoping I don't blackout and run headfirst into a wall.

Last Halloween was so lame I can't even remember it. The years before that were the usual sloppy, gay-ified, so-drunk-my-ears-hurt fiascoes. Fun fiascoes. But fiascoes just the same. That's why this year, I'm determined to have a great time and make out with someone I know. Probably I'll still be so drink my ears hurt (plus medicated), but I'm banking on leaving the whole "stumbling home at 3 AM in a mild depression" scenario in the past.

What are YOU doing this year??

Muffin Like A Visit to the ER in a Blizzard

noreply@blogger.com (JUST ME) — Thu, 29 Oct 2009 11:00:00 +0000

I just stress ate a ginormous banana nut muffin.

Why? Because ten minutes ago, I got back from the ER.

Yup. Me and the ER. We like to reconnect about once a year. It misses me, I think, and then ESPly wrecks my insides so I have to come back and visit it. Doesn't matter where. New Hampshire. New York. Colorado. Just as long as I limp through the automatic doors, hunch over in a chair, and put on a blue hospital dress.

Remember a while ago

when I was all,

Man I have a hurty UTI. Glad I went to Planned Parenthood for antibiotics!

Well, that UTI came back.

And this time, it wanted blood.

Or pee.

Around 7pm tonight -- while babysitting, of course -- I took a regular old trip to the toilet. As soon as I was finished I thought, hm. It feels like I might have another slight UTI. Better go get those herbs and over-the-counter pain meds my doctor told me about last time.

So I bundled one of the kids I'm babysitting up and took him with me.

By the time I had purchased everything, I was almost cross-eyed with pain. I couldn't think. I couldn't breathe. My bladder was possessed by the Exorcist.

[Mind you: there's about 2 feet of snow on the ground at this point]

I tried to wait it out. Took the herbs. Took the pain meds. Took the cranberry pills. Drank water. But no dice. It fucking killed. If UNCOMFORTABLE could be written in bold, uppercase letters, that's what I was feeling. I considered my options. I swallowed my pride. I called the Tattooed Hippie and asked him to take me to the Emergency Room. I had to go. Now.

They took a urine sample (hell, I could pee all night!)

They gave me an antibiotic pill and a pain pill.

Gave me prescriptions for more.

He drove me home.

I stress ate a muffin.

At this point, my bladder is no longer possessed, but it still burns like fucking liquid fire when I pee. I don't feel quite as much pressure (a la the state of Texas on my stomach) but it's still there. I have to tell the woman I nanny for that I left a friend with her kid for 2 hours while I was at the ER. I stress ate a gross muffin and I'm exhausted and not sure if I'll sleep at all.

But at least I wasn't that guy on the gurney with frostbite on his entire foot.

NO EXCUSE October

noreply@blogger.com (JUST ME) — Wed, 28 Oct 2009 21:06:00 +0000

Oh. My. GOD.

Stab me. Right now.

Because there's a foot of snow outside and half a foot more is coming.

Doubt Before Breakfast

noreply@blogger.com (JUST ME) — Tue, 27 Oct 2009 16:03:00 +0000

I feel guilt.

and I haven't even

had coffee yet.

An alumni newsletter connected to my big, important, NYC graduate school arrived this morning. This newsletter was a few pages, describing in detail all the success my peers have been having in New York.

They've been having a lot of success.

I'm happy for so many of them. They deserve those grants and readings and performances and mentor-ships and money. I'm sure there was a buttload of forms and auditions for all of those things and total respect for anyone who can wade through the bullshit to be picked for something major.

And yet, the guilt.

Because what I have done recently? Besides move out of the Art Mecca of the World to a town in Colorado? Besides take odd jobs that in no way have to do with writing? Besides put California on hold because I'm scared of uprooting myself and being depressed again?

What have I done

recently?

A WHOLE Lotta Uncomfortable

noreply@blogger.com (JUST ME) — Mon, 26 Oct 2009 01:38:00 +0000

Whole Foods was the perfect way to start off my day; buying overpriced herbs and pre-made organic meals I don''t need always makes me feel great about life.

It was probably around 9:30 AM. I was dressed like a stylish human being, something I like to do when I'm not yanking kids away from sockets and china cabinets.

The vitamin section of Whole Foods is glorious. Rows and rows of shit you never imagined existed. Walking down the aisles full of random tinctures and tablets, I kept my eyes open for cranberry pills. Going through an Elephant-On-My-Bladder UTI was something I decided I'd keep to a one time event.

"Can I help you find anything?"

A tall, gawky Whole Foods worker was suddenly standing two feet away from me, staring at my forehead.

"I think I'm all set!"

"Okay. By the way, great outfit. You look really..."

He went silent, searching for words I guess, and kept staring at me. I smiled at him, feeling the heavy blanket of awkwardness begin to press down upon us.

"And the gold...it goes really well with everything. Your gold..."

His voice faded away again and he kept staring. Gold what? I tried to think. What was I wearing that was gold? What had I put on that morning? The wheels in my brain spun. Where was the gold?! What was it?! My only chance to save myself was to come up with the answer.

"The gold on her pocketbook?"

A female Whole Foods worker stepped in, a bunch of scented candles in her hand.

"Yes! Your gold pocketbook! I like it."

"Oh. Well, thanks!"

The female worker began a conversation with the guy about beeswax, presumably sacrificing herself to the Gods of Awkward and allowing me to scurry away. Reaching out and grabbing the first bottle of cranberry pills I touched, I did indeed scurry.

Moral:

I really can't deal with weird people before 10 in the morning.

Please Sir, May I Not Have More?

noreply@blogger.com (JUST ME) — Thu, 22 Oct 2009 19:19:00 +0000

New York made me interesting.
It also made me miserable.

Recently, I've been reading the archives of this blog. I've been reading them because I can't fucking believe I've been doing this for almost 4 years. What the hell? Why keep an anonymous, electronic literary journal of my life? When someone first mentioned the idea of blogging to me, I remember laughing. Nerds. They were the only people who kept blogs. Nerds and dramatic teenagers who tried to cut their wrists with scissors but got freaked out and decided quoting obscure beatnik authors at a www address was the next best thing.

When I lived in the city, my writing was interesting.

And I think it was interesting because I was miserable.

Overworked. Underpaid. Lonely. Cold. Hot. Poor. Knee deep in love triangles, bad landlords, horrible neighbors, shitty apartments...it was all there and I wrote about it and it sounded good turned into words. But living that shit out? No. No fun. Not worth repeating. Let's not go back there and say we did.

Life hasn't improved to the point of spontaneous celebrating (all my soaks have holes in them, Charles Dickens style, but I'm simply too poor to buy new ones) , but it HAS gotten better, and sometimes, it worries me that because I'm not rolling around in a twin sized bed soaked in tears, these words no longer have the punch they once did.

Do you have to be miserable to be interesting?

A lot of writers who drink whiskey straight up and stare at blank pages at 3 AM will tell you that it's true. Misery is the spring of creativity. But shit. I don't want that. I never have. I want to intrigue people and tell stories that you read until the end and then flip back to the beginning because there has to be more!, but I don't want to hate my life to get there.

I like being happy.
Artistic death sentence?

Movin On Up

noreply@blogger.com (JUST ME) — Wed, 21 Oct 2009 01:25:00 +0000

As you can see
we are going through a RENOVATION period.

My fantastic friend -- and NYC roommate of 2 years who subsequently popped up here every once in a while -- is trying to make my blog less retarded.

Because let's face it people.
I've been doing this for 4 YEARS
[holy.shit.]

It's time for an upgrade.
...or at least an attempted one.

A One Two Punch of Affection

noreply@blogger.com (JUST ME) — Mon, 19 Oct 2009 17:13:00 +0000

"Okay. I'm going to take a chance here..."

He exhaled, his mouth almost-smiling with a nervous twitch. She stood in front of him, internally bracing herself for whatever he was about to throw her way -- because any sentence that started out like that probably required a set jaw.

"You're gorgeous. And I love you - "

Wait. Something flickered in front of her eyes and she felt her face flush. Had he really just said -- had he really just --

"But I think you should know when you wear too much of that make-up it makes the hairs on your face stick out."

...So there it was. His proclamation of love. The words she had never thought she would hear combined with some other words she never really wanted to hear. But at least she heard them.

And learned to apply moisturizer after a powder base.

Ugh

noreply@blogger.com (JUST ME) — Thu, 15 Oct 2009 23:45:00 +0000

You know what I hate?

Feeling mediocre.

It's why, when I go to yoga, I find a spot in the back. It's why when I run, I run on trails that have mostly cows and birds (because we all know cows don't judge). It's why I cringe when an actor messes up the timing I could have sworn I fool-proofed in the script. It's why nothing feels as good as Finalist, First Place, Far Better Than The Competition.

I realize this probably makes me childish.
But whatever.

When I'm smack dab in the middle of a project that makes me feel
mediocre,
it takes all my strength to not FLIP THE FUCK OUT
and throw things like the pseudo-toddler I am.

I have no problem admitting that I'm impatient. A perfectionist. Way too critical most of the time. I have no problem admitting to any of that. Sit in a room with me for 5 minutes and it'll be obvious. But the thing I just...can't...

Mediocrity.

P.P Thoughts

noreply@blogger.com (JUST ME) — Wed, 14 Oct 2009 22:11:00 +0000

Last night my brain was moving.
Racing like Lance Armstrong going downhill with bricks on his bike.

Every so often my mind will do this. I slide into bed early and feel excited that I'll actually get some sleep and then BAM somebody turns the motor on and the thoughts can't be stopped for at least another hour.

There wasn't even anything particularly pressing to obsess about last night. Mostly just poor person thoughts. Thoughts about how to go grocery shopping and spend as little as possible, thoughts about the price of juice (WHY is it so expensive?), thoughts about instant taco seasoning packets and how salty they are but oh,how cheap and easy. Last night my mind went over every single thing I own in the refrigerator and freezer and analyzed what could be made out of them.

I envision a day when I won't feel guilty about spending money on food.

Just think about it...walking through the Organics section, picking anything I feel like, maybe things I don't even need...like pre-sliced vegetables. Who needs vegetables that have already been diced? No one. But how awesome are they?

The last thought I had before finally getting a few hours of sleep centered around being 26 and not having a real job or any real savings and spending a good portion of my 20's acting like a gypsy and currently being unable to afford pre-sliced vegetables.

Couldn't be sure if I was proud of that or not.

Am I So Horrible?

noreply@blogger.com (JUST ME) — Wed, 14 Oct 2009 02:22:00 +0000

{Please Note: My computer is making a very weird buzzing noise.
Please Also Note: I shelled out upwards of $100 to get it fixed earlier this month
and spent way too much time inside a bloated, confusing Mac store full of employees
who couldn't find it inside themselves to help me.}

Sometimes I'm worried
that I'm a horrible writer.

Not talent-wise.
Talent is so subjective
and it ain't coming if it isn't already here,
so why stress about that?

I'm worried I'm a horrible writer because I don't spend most of my time writing.

I spend my time working so I can pay my bills and for one too many Target splurges. I spend my time dicking around on the internet watching videos of babies hitting their dads in the crotch and downloading illegal HBO shows. I spend my time making art, love, and general passionate uprisings with a half crazy tattooed guitarist. I spend my time leafing through Martha Stewart magazines and clicking through blogs about screenwriting.

I daydream about being famous. I meditate. Turn around in my mirror with my shirt pulled up to see if I've lost or gained any weight. I go to Whole Foods and wander down the aisles, wondering if I need star fruit or organic lemonade or more vitamin D or B or a full body cleanse.

I go to band practice and sing. I spend time deciding if I could be famous for singing. I daydream about that. I stare inside the pantry and shake boxes of stale crackers to see how stale they really are (the less noise, the more stale). I count the change in my wallet.

See?
I'm wasting time
and it makes me worry
that I'm a horrible writer.

{Oh Yes You Will}

noreply@blogger.com (JUST ME) — Mon, 12 Oct 2009 23:26:00 +0000

"You could go as a rock star."
"I'm already a rock star" he said (in jest?).
"Right. But we'll just put some guyliner on you, maybe some black nail polish..."
"Why don't I go as a skier? That way I'll be warm."

He [predictably] hates Halloween.
I love it.

I'll have to whip out the hottest costume known to man
just to get him out the door.

It's been years since I've had a (non-gay) man on my arm during my favorite holiday. In New York City, it was fine. In New York City, there was going to be someone to hook up with, regardless of where I went or how I was dressed. But even a girl like me gets tired of random dance floor make-out sessions with dudes a little too eager to wear a dress.

I'd really like him to have fun with me that weekend. Both nights.
[What can I say? I'm a glutton for candy and glitter.]

Come On, Health. Get It Together.

noreply@blogger.com (JUST ME) — Sun, 11 Oct 2009 19:15:00 +0000

I gave in.
Went to Planned Parenthood.
Got antibiotics.

Fuck you, UTI.

This is the second time I've been to Planned Parenthood in the last two months. They probably think I'm doing every single dirty guy I see. Reality: my body is sensitive as shit and can really only handle one dude at a time.

The cold from hell is ebbing.
The brick on my bladder has lifted.

Now it's time to sleep off the nausea caused by...
anybody's guess.

Cran You Do It?

noreply@blogger.com (JUST ME) — Fri, 09 Oct 2009 02:20:00 +0000

Warning:

If you're a tiny person (such as me)
and you take 3 cranberry pills (like me)
you will spend the majority of the day peeing and feeling like someone is standing on your bladder.

It will not be fun.

Payback

noreply@blogger.com (JUST ME) — Thu, 08 Oct 2009 00:46:00 +0000

Oh yes,
I'm still disastrously ill.

Also, it might snow tomorrow. On October 8th.

Annnnd my UTI won't go away.

I tell you -- at some point in a previous life I did something to piss God off. As I sit on my couch, chasing various vitamins and NyQuil tablets with orange juice, I'm trying to figure out what it was. Maybe I was a royal bitch. Maybe I was alive during the Depression and when everyone else was eating stale bread and paint chips I was stuffing my face with cake and paying my housekeepers in pennies. Or something.

Considering my health and dating scorecard,
I probably got married to a hot, rich dude during the Black Plague and lived in a castle while everyone else
died.

What other explanation IS there?

No Matter How Old You Are

noreply@blogger.com (JUST ME) — Wed, 07 Oct 2009 02:28:00 +0000

Cough medicine will always taste like shit.

I'm sick.
It sucks.

The other day I had a 24 hour UTI infection that almost killed me.
Now it's the cold from hell.

My body seems to be staging a revolt.

What Did They DO To Me?

noreply@blogger.com (JUST ME) — Mon, 05 Oct 2009 19:49:00 +0000

I tried a new type of yoga today
-- per the Tattooed Hippie's request --

[Our Deal: I feel like an inflexible idiot in yoga, HE quits smoking]

and basically cried the entire way through.

Not because it was hard. It actually wasn't bad. And not because I couldn't lift my leg over my head. None of that. For some reason, it was just an emotional experience.

Which is odd.
Because my emotions don't really show in public.

My cynical self that doesn't believe in any of that other worldly shit was nowhere to be found. I couldn't even laugh at the fact that I was basically sticking my ass in someone's face for 15 minutes.

I had to secretly wipe my eyes for an hour and half.

Random.

S.O.S

noreply@blogger.com (JUST ME) — Sun, 04 Oct 2009 23:25:00 +0000

[Written earlier as an email to myself in a fit of panic]

There's not even pot here. I checked. Went through all his drawers in a vain attempt to end my suffering. -- Or at least dull it.

I'm in the Tattooed Hippie's room, waiting for him to get back from some guitar adventure. He's been gone 2 and a half hours. There's no food at his house. I really want breakfast and have no idea when he'll be back. But this isn't even the worst part. This isn't .003% of the worst part. The worst part is that four weird people are upstairs, banging drums and singing nonsense hippie chants. Four old, loud people who kept WAKING ME UP throughout the night with their foursome sex project.

I'm serious.
I wish I wasn't.

I don't want to go up there. I really don't. I'm not sure I can look at them in the face after listening to their monotonous, annoyingly loud sexcapades. I'm afraid I'll have a reflexive stomach lurch, maybe throw up a little in my mouth, or maybe the frustration I felt all night will just pour out and I'll "accidentally" break their drum with my fists.

The thing is -- do what you want. Do the freakiest, kinkiest shit this world has ever seen, as long as it doesn't GET ALL UP IN MY MENTAL SPACE. Then we have problems, you and me. Or me and you four, as it were.

I don't know where he is. Why won't he come home? I think I might have some kind of seizure due to the mass amount of annoying bullshit I've dealt with in the last 14 hours. My heart might stop from the sheer retardedness of the situation.

I think I might have to leave on my own. Or I will SERIOUSLY break something. I've got a little hippie in me, but COME ON. COME THE FUCK ON.

Oh, and did I mention that the dog of one of the old hippies was in OUR room last night? Yeah. Jumping on and off the bed. Making loud old dog noises. I swear to you. Between that and the high pitched sex squeaks I almost started crying.

Maybe I'll start crying now. That could really happen. I can feel it, the need to burst into sobs. Because Jesus I'm starving and it's so weird up there and how many hours did I sleep I have no idea. Can I climb out the window?

Oh God. Oh my god. Now they're all yelling? Playing with the dog and screaming? Listen to me, people. I have landed in the 9th vortex of bizarre.

I can't even write anymore. This is too stupid.