Four Little Children

Tom my new friend and taxi driver, dropped me off this morning at Domino’s Farms for my Pre-Op appointment. Once there, I checked in, completed forms. Next, I was poked and prodded. I sat in the lobby and waited for the physician’s assistant to explain the surgical process to me. In two weeks, hardware that held my ravaged then rebuilt ankle will be removed. Tendons will be unwrapped from freshly healed bone in hopes that it will alleviate some of my chronic pain. I am tough, but I am scared. I am scared, but I am strong. I pick up my phone and the heat from my fingertips bring it to life. As I begin to play a game I mutter in frustration, “I’m so fucking tired of this injury sucking the marrow out of my very existence.”  

I’m an observational writer. Two and a half years ago I would have laughed if you’d said such a thing. Most of my young and adult life, with the help of ADHD, OCD, married life, parenting, and plain old rushing around, I couldn’t observe more than five things at once. Once I realized that my dream was to observe and write about it, I couldn’t stop. Life was a rush. I was constantly stimulated, and inspired. I say passionate, everyone else in my life said I was obsessed.

This morning, as the lives diminished in my game, I remembered who and what I was.  Placing my phone in my purse, I began watching four little children. One boy and three girls ran wild up and down the hill outside in front of Lobby C. The girls, ranged in age from 8-11, and wore short skirts with little shirts. Their feet were clad in sandals and their long blonde hair whipped around their faces as they ran. The little boy, about 7 was clad in shorts, t-shirt and black flip flops. He ran up and down that hill, faster than his sisters did. He didn’t seem to care that  he lost his shoes in the process.

The oldest girl walked away from her siblings to stand in the stone and ivy garden. The foliage and ceramic toadstools made her look a bit like Alice when she spoke to a hookah smoking caterpillar in Wonderland. Her young charges continued to run up that hill, around the tree at the top and back down.  I’m sure if there wasn’t concrete at the bottom of that hill, they would have rolled down it. Staining their knees and elbows green, as their little brother lost his shoes again.

I sat in a comfy armchair inside, but I wanted to run with them. I wanted to walk on stick thin legs made tan by the summer sun. I wanted to be the young girl standing in the ivy garden that looked like Alice. I wouldn’t have even minded being the little boy that lost his shoes as I jumped to touch the arbor at the entrance of Lobby C.

I don’t wish to go back to that age, but I do wish I could let the wind whip my hair as I run. And to feel confident that when I run, there wouldn’t be pain. I want to suck the marrow out of life again. Maybe after this next surgery, I will.

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Living a Full Life

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“You will find that it is necessary to let things go; simply for the reason that they are heavy. So let them go, let go of them. I tie no weights to my ankles.
C. JoyBell C.

A few years ago I went through a major weight loss transformation and I became addicted to working out. I found that it didn’t bring the world to my feet and it most certainly didn’t bring me happiness. Sure, I liked the looks I got from men and women. I loved the highs of working out. But I was still looking for something to make me complete.

Since my injury, I’ve gained weight because I haven’t been able to move much. I hated being sedentary. It felt like prison. I ate a lot, but found that it didn’t bring me happiness. It didn’t stave off the desperation I felt, and the extreme loneliness. I’ve been trying my very best not to beat myself about it. I won’t.

I have begun eating healthier and the weight is coming off. I place my feet in gym shoes and set about walking the sidewalks of my apartment complex at least five times a day. I’m building stamina so that I can walk to the bus stop to get myself back to work in early August. Physical therapy is grueling but worth it.

I’ve decided I will not become addicted to food or the gym again. I will not worry about every piece of food that goes into my mouth. I will be mindful of my eating, but I will not beat myself up about having a piece of cake. A full life for me means walking outside in the fresh air, biting into a ripe nectarine, or watching my dog carry a stick that’s bigger than him. Yes, that’s a full life.

Five Days Til Touch Down

Woman Walking on Tracks

“There is no greater agony than bearing an untold story inside you.”

How can it be that I get a buzz from regular Tylenol?
That was the first thing I thought of when I opened my eyes this morning. I was lying in bed with a pillow wedged between my legs to keep my post-surgery ankle from rubbing against my healthy one. Cinders, the devil kitty was lying next to me and she gave me a low growl as I stroked between her ears. My middle-aged body creaked as I stretched and shifted my weight to sit on the side of the bed. Cinders yipped and snipped at me as she bounded her fat self out of her side of the bed. I tightened my core and stood up on one leg. With practiced finesse I turned my entire body around and seated myself in my old friend, a metal wheelchair.
I went through my ritual of morning self-care. Dammit but I sure do love a shower. Leaning against the wall, I stand on one foot and let the hot water run down my entire body. It’s the closest I get to having a lover touch me. You don’t know how much you need the touch of another human until you are incapacitated with an injury and have no prospects. My left leg began to shake so I sat in my shower chair. I washed my face, shaved my legs and washed my hair. Cinders peered around the side of the shower curtain and mewed. I flung water at her and she ran away like her ass was on fire. My laughter echoed on the ceramic tiles. Afterward, I dried off and with my walker hopped back to my wheelchair.
I drank coffee.
Used my bone stimulator.
Did some banking.
Sat and waited to go to physical therapy.
That’s the story of my life these days.
Hurry the fuck up…
And wait….
I’m sick of only being able to wear one damn shoe at a time.
30 minutes of cardio left me sweating like a whore in church, but dammit I felt good! Amelia and I worked my right ankle and foot so hard. I was proud of the fact that we increased the reps of the work out and the size of the ball on the BAPS board. Amelia rewarded my efforts with a massage. We took measurements and found that my Range of Motion had greatly improved in the last month.
Look at me, I can point my toes!
Does that hurt?
Nope, but I’m sure it will later.
She and I said our goodbyes and good weekends. I won’t see her until Thursday of next week. I hope to be walking when I do….Wearing my gym shoes….And pushing my walker.
Tom my usual cab driver, picked me up and whisked me back to my apartment. To my cage, and my perch. Icing my ankle, I zoned out and watched crappy t.v. Cinders the devil kitty, snuggled around the top of my head.
I called Mom.
Shared texts with friends.
Took meds.
Fell asleep.
Tonight, I celebrate that I have five days left in this cage. I’ve learned why the caged bird sings. He sings of freedom. I miss being a biped. I miss going wherever in the hell I want. I miss doing whatever in the hell I want.
I’m finished.
My foot’s on fire.
I laughed while I watched National Lampoon’s Family Vacation.
My Dad looks like Chevy Chase.
I miss John Candy.
And I’m happy I didn’t cry today.
In a private message exchange Red and I chatted about our days. As our convo wound down he asked me, where are you going to walk first? Right the fuck out of my surgeon’s office, I quipped.
I’m spent. Goodnight Moon and goodnight Word Press. This Sparkly Bird has had it!

Six Days Till Touch Down

Feet in Puddles

 

Yesterday, Amelia wrapped her fingers around the arch of my right foot and began to gently massage the tiny bones beneath its surface. She tugged and stretched the atrophied ligaments and tendons too. I could feel the bones cracking and every once in awhile we heard a popping sound. They surprised us both, but I told her not to worry, she was not causing me any pain. More and more tension was eased as she worked her way down to my heel. I closed my eyes and laced my fingers behind my head. Shifting in her seat, Amelia began to move my foot outward and down. She told me I had to reeducate the signals of my brain.

The signals in my brain have become numb, and I feel like a drone. I’ve numbed my brain and body with food, mundane television and an addiction to Facebook. I’d hoped to write a book while I was off on medical. It didn’t happen. Instead, I wallowed in ice cream and fast food delivery. I’ve gained weight while being sedentary. Food didn’t make feel any better. It didn’t fill my soul.

I think in abstract instead of full sentences. Thoughts and ideas start, then stop. They become dead ends and hide somewhere in the synapses of my brain. Romance. Love. Anger. Doubts. Pain in the ankle. Pain in the heart. Thoughts muddled. Scarred soul along with the ankle. Loneliness. Independence. Faith. Fear. Prayers.

I worried about being dependent on pain meds so I weaned myself from them as quickly as I could. Tylenol does the job when taken regularly. The bones have healed, and so have the incisions. The original trauma site continues to heal, from the inside out. I ingest supplements for hair, skin and nails in hopes that it will heal more quickly. I’m tired of being reminded of my stupidity, and the fact that my body and car were totaled. That my insurance was canceled. That I have no idea when and if I will be able to walk normally again. Whether or not I will be able to drive again. Or how the hell I’m going to buy a car or insurance anyway.

I worry about my weight and the fact that none of my clothes fit. Will my newly knitted bones be able to hold up my fatness. Will I be loved or held again. Will I have a partner in crime and in life. Will I have to fight to find love, while I fight to regain my body again.  Or will only creepy old dudes find me attractive. Will I be able to point my toes normally.

Will all of this damn work be for naught. Will the Talus bone die. Will the ankle be fused and my recovery start all over again? Where are my high heels?

It’s raining right now and all I want to do is run out into it. I want to run away. I want to smell worms and springtime. I want to be myself again. A free spirit, effervescent, sparkly and unafraid of tomorrow. I want to bear weight and walk into the deluge outside my window. To feel it drench my skin and wash my soul clean. I want to live unencumbered by weight, a walker, or a limp.

Life is to be lived. Not by sitting on my couch and staring out the door wall, but by participating in it. The rainstorm has left puddles that I’d love to splash in. Ah, to feel the rain and grit cover my calves would be heaven.

Heaven, I tell you!

45 Can Suck my Dick!

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Fuck 40. 40 can suck my dick!-Debbie-This is 40

As I tried to drag my tired ass out of bed this morning, all I could think about was the movie I watched last night. By myself of course, because Roger Darling had a stressful week. He’s recently been promoted to assistant manager at the direct care group home where he is employed. I have to say when Leslie Mann bemoaned the fact that 40 could suck her dick, I agreed completely. Of course, I’m now 45. That age can suck my dick too.

What the hell have I become but a hamster on a wheel? I have to work out for an hour to eat a cupcake. Hell, to even take a bite of a cupcake, and not have it go straight to my ass. Forget carbs. A woman my age can no longer even enjoy a fucking bagel without calculating how many miles she will have to run to burn off the calories. This sucks!

I sit here in my workout clothes waiting for RD to get home so I can trot my ass to the gym and run a couple of miles. Of course, it’s been a few weeks since I’ve done any kind of workout. I’ll probably keel over and die on the way home.

I miss the days when Diet Coke and a cigarette were dinner. If I did that now, my blood sugar would plummet and I’d end up in the ER. This getting older shit ain’t for sissies. I swear to you I’ve seen more wrinkles appear on my face in the last six month than I have in the past few years.

No more complaining. It’s time to get up off my ass and head to the gym. Drink more water and eat healthier too. Just once I’d like to go back in time and slap the 17 year old me and tell her to lighten up. To have more fun and run more. To go to college. Not to smoke! Don’t worry, I quit that habit years ago. I had to because I would lose my breath when doing the dirty, dirty, and no one wants that!!!!

I’m not looking for positive comments and ah grrrrlllll, you can do it pats on the back. I just wanted to bitch. As the title states, 45 can suck my dick!

Off to the fucking gym!

Love,

Sparkly Girl

I’ll Have What She’s Having

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YES, YES, YES, YES, YES, YES!!!

Er, well, maybe not. No my fellow pervs, I’m not writing another erotic entry. Today is about me. Then again when isn’t it? It’s a good day. I saw Super Therapist. I made him laugh and blush. He questioned me about how I felt about my anger on a certain subject. I told him I felt betrayed and abandoned. Like I didn’t matter. He asked if my anger left me helpless. I explained that now that I’m pissed, it proved I was fearless. That I could move forward knowing what I want. What I need.

It’s time to get up and Try, Try, Try as my girl, P!nk would say. I’m going to meet that woman someday.

The first thing I need to do is lose the 30 fucking pounds I’ve put back on. I’m an addict. Food, alcohol, the written word, validation, exercise, etc. You name it, and I’ve been addicted to it. I slunk back into the Medical Weight Loss Clinic yesterday and talked to my favorite counselor, Crissy. She has a huge crush on Roger Darling. Whenever she speaks of him, she blushes. I peed on sticks, weighed myself and waited for her to rag on me. She didn’t. We discussed a cleanse and going back on Plan. I wanted to scream, shit, fuck and dammit. I kept my mouth shut though. I purchased 10 weeks of the program and told her I’d be back to weigh in and buy my protein supplements on Friday. Shit, fuck and dammit!!!!!

The next thing to do is go to the gym. I started this good habit again a couple of weeks ago. I bitched and whined the entire time. I suffered from shitty insomnia and a racing heart. Roger Darling and I kept going though. I’m so damn mad at myself. I was running three miles, four to five days a week. My arms were sculpted with muscle. So were my legs. I’m walking at a fast pace and getting my ass kicked on the elliptical.

Rog and I have a goal. We want to do the Color Run on May 11, 2013. I will be wearing a tutu, tiara, white shorts and t-shirt. This bitch is gonna look HAWT! Then we’ll get sprayed with paint as we meander our way to the finish line. There’s muscles to be regained and weight to be lost and maintained. I’ll do it again. I’ll fight the good fight. I revel in the fact that my battle will only take 10 weeks instead of the original 15 months it took me to lose 150 lbs.

There’s this novel I’m writing too. Today is one of those days when the words flow like sweet honey. I ache to write all day. My day job prevents me from doing so. I’m an old school writer, even though I’ve only been doing this for a little over a year. I write notes in my journal. The few words I jot down jog my memory and help me fill in the blanks when the time comes to create.

My main character Ian has written the other main character, Maggie their first love letter. He slipped it into her notes for his class. She hasn’t even read it yet. What will it say? I’m not sure yet. I’m sure it will have to do with her hair the color of flames and eyes the color of the sea. He’s a bit of cad though, so he may write something filthy too. We’ll see. BTW, this book is a love story. I promise you it will not be shitty. The love scenes will make no mention of the word inner goddess. I like the words cock and pussy and I’ll be sure to use them liberally. The love notes are the key to my story. They are.

Time to finish up some work. Eat an orange. Drink more fucking water!!! I swear to you I’ve an ocean floating around inside of me. Then it’s off to the gym and red meat and salad for dinner. Yup, this Sparkly Girl’s going to do it again.

Gotta get up and Try, Try, Try. Gotta get up and Try, Try, Try. Hey, if I don’t get to meet her, I can at least look like her. Giggle, snort!

40 Days and WTF Happened to my Ass???

40 days till my Meggie marries the man of her dreams. He looks an awful lot like Eddie Vedder. His name is Chris.  My future son in law couldn’t carry a tune in a bucket. If you listen to Eddie though, he sounds like he’s sucking on a few marbles when he sings. Which is just fine with me. I think he’s a golden god! I digress. Now back to Chris. The young man loves my daughter with everything he has, so I gotta love him too. I love him even more, because before he asked Meggie to marry him, he asked her dad.

The wedding plans are coming together. Not much to do. Get the dress there, get the license, and make sure that the bridal party gets off the cruise ship on time. We also need to get to the rented beach bungalow, hair/makeup/clothes, catch a taxi and make our way to where the ceremony will take place. Roger Darling is in charge of getting the wedding guests, family, groom and groomsmen to the beach by 10 am.

Roger sent me a text yesterday that said, I love you Mother of the Bride. I sent him a reply that said Olive u 2 Father of the Bride. We’re a couple of dorks, but we’re fun!

When I got home last night, I realized that Meggie’s dress will have to be cleaned and pressed. Then placed in its own suitcase for the trip. I started freaking the hell out. What if it gets ruined at the cleaners? What if the suitcase it’s in gets lost in transit? What if? What if? What if? Roger looked at me and said, Ah hell we’ll rent her a dress on the ship. I totally forgot we could do that. Phew!

In the last few weeks I’ve tried putting on and zipping up my size 12 pants. Seems I’ve grown out of the fuckers. I’m none too pleased by this development. If you’ve been following me for long you know I’ve gone through a huge weight loss. My body and mind have been transformed. The last two years have been quite the roller coaster. Through writing, I’ve been learning to adjust.

Recently I injured my back, got depressed, started drinking again and well, kinda fell apart. Little by little I’ve healed. I’ve recovered in almost every way. Except I still can’t fit into my fucking pants!

Now it’s back to the gym for Roger Darling and me. Time for us to get addicted to something healthy. And though I’m sore from doing 75 ab crunches and reverse sit ups and my legs feel like jello from learning how to run again, I’m elated. Fucking elated, I tell you!!!! I’ve got my gym clothes in the car and I’ll head there right after work today. It feels good to sweat. It feels good to run. It feels good to hurt from a workout. Fucking A it feels good!

I told Super Therapist today as I opened up my palm and pointed at it, “This right here in the palm of my hand is the world. I can do and be anything that I want.”

He just looked at me, smiled and replied, “Yes Renee, you most certainly can and you will.”

Happy Wednesday my sweets. Happy Wednesday. Go grab life by the balls, will ya?

BLOW ME (One Last Kiss)

Just when I think it can’t get worse, I had a shit day (no!)
You had a shit day (no!), we’ve had a shit day (no!)
I think that life’s too short for this
I’ll pack my ignorance and bliss
I think I’ve had enough of shit, Blow me one last kiss.

As David from Lead.Learn.Live. has said about my blog, strap in for the ride. Because darlin’s here we go. Feeling a bit like a snarky bitch today. I’ve just about had it. These last few months have SUCKED! Fucking sucked!!!!!! I’ve gained 20 lbs because I haven’t been able to run. I’ve been drinking because I’m a whiny dumb ass. I’ve been obsessing over shit I can’t fix. I’m pissed off at myself for not being able to hold onto friendships and relationships. I’ve changed. It’s what I’ve done. I can’t go back. I won’t. I have to get up and run. Every damn time I want to go back to the gym something happens. There’s some road block. Some obstacle that gets in my way and fucks everything up. But no more!!!!!!!

As I was helping my Adam Boy move tonight, he had me laughing my ass off. At one point in the evening, he looked at me and asked me how we could be related. I told him, I was there and I know I gave birth to him. He’s such a cynical shit. Then I started singing and Meggie bitched at me to shut up, because my voice sucks. I have to say even though they are shit heads, I love them immensely. I looked at them after we repainted a bedroom in the apartment and said come hell or high water, I was going back to the gym tomorrow night.

I’m tired of feeling anxious and being a cranky cunt. I need to get fucking moving!!!!! I’ve worked too damn hard to go back. I can’t backslide. As I was driving home tonight, one of my new favorite songs came on the radio. Blow Me (One Last Kiss) by P!nk. I idolize her. She is the epitome of what I want to be. She doesn’t give a fuck and she says what’s on her mind. She sings what’s on MY mind.

I cranked up the radio, banged on the roof of my car and sang my ass off. I made the decision that enough is enough. I’m done whining and making excuses. It’s time to get back in the gym and get this crazy aggression out of me. As I was telling Rory today, instead of self-destruction, I need to focus on self-preservation. Not only of my body, but my heart and soul too.

I’ve made a lot of connections here in this lovely blogosphere. While some have been good and healthy. Some have been self-defeating and taken me into a downward spiral. It’s time to look up. To move on.

Tonight when I got home, I turned on some P!nk and danced in the living room in my tank shirt and undies. This Sparkly Girl is heading back to the gym and starting the long way back to being able to run 3.5 miles again. Sometimes the best revenge is living well. It’s what I plan to do. Every damn day of my life. I’m going to live well.

I will do what I please, anything that I want
I will breathe, I won’t breathe, I won’t worry at all
You will pay for your sins, you’ll be sorry my dear
All the lies, all the wise, will be crystal clear

The Smell of Freshly Turned Earth

“There’s naught as nice as th’ smell o’ good clean earth, except th’ smell o’ fresh growin’ things when th’ rain falls on ’em.”
― Frances Hodgson BurnettThe Secret Garden

There’s nothing like the feeling of a shovel in my hands and  the turning of fresh earth. The dust  plumes into the air and my toes become covered with it. It’s all over my legs too. I place the shovel on the ground and kneel where I’d just been digging. I place my hands in the earth and let it sift through my fingers. I breathe in the scent of it. It’s dry and dirty, but somehow it cleanses me. I grab my trimmers and cut roots from the ground, then throw them both aside.

I take the field stones that I’ve pulled from the ground and place them in a rock garden around the concrete bird bath. It was my mother-in-law’s. I look at it and it makes me wish for the days of planting flowers with her. We did that the first Spring after my father-in-law died a cruel death from Pancreatic Cancer. My mind drifts back to the present and to the task at hand. The rebuilding of a dilapidated fence to keep the three Wonder Schnauzers from wandering the streets. Plus the transplanting of Lilac bushes, Hostas, and an out of control Forsythia bush.

My body is sore from a recent car accident, a compressed vertebra and pinched nerve. But I need to be outside. The air is crisp on this Sunday morning. With our bodies in constant motion and the movement of the sun, the temperature increases and I slowly but surely begin shedding my layers of clothing. I start out in sweatshirt, t-shirt and yoga pants. I end up in yoga pants and a tank shirt, since I need to feel the warm sun on my already pale skin.

I do a ton of raking while Roger Darling pulls the posts from the old fence. We re-measure and mark them for cutting and I stand on the boards to hold them in place while he uses the circular saw. He cuts off the rotted end of the post. I smell fresh sawdust because the blade has heated the freshly cut piece of wood. I swear it is one of those smells that takes me back to my childhood. Reminds me of my mother. Of all that she taught me to do.  I take my flip flops off and stick my feet in the sawdust. I make sure to pick up and throw away all the old nails that we removed from the posts that we re-purposed.

As a kid I hauled lumber, measured and cut wood, built decks, and painted. Whatever needed to be done, I had to learn to do.  I was raised in a houseful of women. We did everything ourselves. It must be why I still like working hard and getting my hands dirty. Honey I don’t get my nails did, because what would be the point? They’d get ruined the moment I found some project to work on. Or stuck them in dishwater or scrubbed a sink. Hell who knows what else I’d get into?

Roger Darling keeps asking if I’m okay. If I’m hurting. I assure him that I’d taken a couple of Vicodin and a Valium and I’m doing just fine. The only thing that pisses me off is that I can’t swing a hammer. I sure do love to drive nails into fresh wood. To hear the sound of it. To feel the force of the hammer bite into the wood and then drive it home. I’m no pussy. I can drive it home in about five strikes. I don’t tap it, for the love of God. I drive it!

The hardest part for us is dealing with the neighbor’s compost pile that’d been sitting up against our old fence for about five years. I pull branches, sticks, leaves, and grab the shovel and dig. Roger Darling is helping too. We’re tired and getting to the point where we don’t give a shit what the last section of fence looks like when placed. Our hands hurt, and the nerve in my back is starting to spasm, all the way down my damn arm.  The work must be finished though. I grab the shovel and dig. We place the fence section, and it’s still too high. We’re tired and bitchy but we keep at it.

Finally it is placed just right. We need to add a 2×4 so that the section stays in place. I’m still pissed that I can’t drive a nail into the wood. Roger Darling drives the final nail and the fence is finally set. It looks damn good. Roger and I look at each other and we are so happy with the outcome. The Wonder Schnauzers are happy too. They are finally freed from their leashes and allowed to roam their backyard. We move and replant our various flowers and plants. Our work is finally done. We are spent, but feel accomplished.

I love to work with my hands. To get them dirty. Make them a little calloused and rough. Not to worry though, I scrub my nails and file them back to perfection when the work is done. Roger Darling and I even went out to dinner that night and shared dessert. We figured we’d work hard and played in the dirt, we deserved a treat.

I’m reminded of a conversation I shared with my father-in-law.

He said, “You work hard like a man.”

I looked at him and replied, “No honey, I work hard like a woman. I was taught to work hard by other women.”

My new dad grinned, told me he loved me and gave me a sweet hug. I sure do miss that man. He’d have been proud of all the work that Rog and I did.

To write is to live, to live is to write

I live to write. To put pen to paper and make the words come alive. To make you feel my stories with such intensity they make you weep, hope, hate, love, feel. Everything. If I die right now, thats okay. To die with my pen painting a vivid story would be the only way to go. It has not been easy these last few weeks. The pain in the left side of my body has been intense. There’s weakness, aches, creaking and cracking. The nerves in my back and arm are inflamed and pinched. It angers me to be weak. This girl wants to write, run, and swing a hammer. I can’t do anything because my body is rebelling. I’m angry because I feel old. I don’t want to be old. I fear it. The slowing down. The wrinkling. The withering of the mind and body. I do not want it!!! And yet I know it is inevitable. I always thought I’d live fast and die young. Turns out I’m a middle aged writer wannabe. But then I guess it’s always better than the alternative. Death.