Thirteen years ago, I was contemplating sex with a stranger, at the risk of being labeled a slut. Today I am contemplating screwing the lead guitarist of a band that my father bought every album of, just because I will be covering the band’s concert here this spring. Open relationships mean one thing: Trust is more important than monogamy, and “hunk o’ burning love” is taken literally. The problem arose when Dennis did not want me sleeping with any man except himself, something that wasn’t fair, as he confided in me that he had had several “encounters” on the road, then “clarified” that they had all been between bandmates. What? He’s screwing other men? It’s not surprising to me, but it really threw our therapist back a few inches.
But if I had sex with another woman and he could watch, that was fine.
Isn’t it always?
I have been in conversation with the guitarist that I am planning on conquering this spring, and he’s really a nice guy. He doesn’t know what I’m planning, yet, and a good groupie doesn’t divulge what they are planning until the moment happens, but he offered to buy me coffee and talk about the tour. How nice. I needed a shot of insulin after that conversation.
Hey, my manager says I have to be nice to the bands that I interview! It’s out of my hands! If we give them bad publicity, they may shit on our publications, and we’ll lose readers. Normally. Knowing today’s youth, if a band said “[This] magazine sucks!” millions of people may jump out and buy it or order subscriptions. Unfortunately, the managers don’t think like that, and if we get bad publicity from a band, the reporter who caused that bad publicity is fired. Permanently. So, it’s my motto to be a groupie in disguise of a reporter! Besides, I’ve been a groupe since I was fifteen, and I’m still waiting for that one “bad thing” to happen to me to spoil it all.
Dennis has been trying to get me to rethink many things on my agenda. Things such as sleeping with this guy, packing up and leaving the family, and other “mistakes that I am going to regret” in the future. I replied that he sounded like a middle school teacher, preaching about “the future” all the time. I’m at that point in my life where I don’t care about the future anymore. I just want to make it through the present and learn to let go of the past. If that means that I am a whore or a slut, or a “druggie whore” as one of my lovely blog visitors has referred to me as (I can see those referrer logs, dumb ass!), then so be it. It’s amazing that people really care that much about what I think of them that they are willing to insult me over an invisible media. There’s the discussion of what this may be “setting for Chloe.” I can honestly say that my own mother’s promiscuity had no effect on how I grew up, other than I wish she had not physically and emotionally abused me in the process. Other than that, it’s her body, her pussy, her choices. I’m not married to her just as Chloe is not married to me. If Chloe grows up and has sex with Marilyn Manson, good for her! I hope she at least gets his autograph out of it all!
My biggest concern is that I don’t know if I can go through with it. I’ve been having that problem for a long time now. Call it a conscience, call it chickening out. I don’t know what to make of it. Ideas?
Before any rumors start to fly, why yes, I did some dumb shit and hurt myself this week:
So in the last couple of days, I have had a little bit of fun. After the trauma of finding my husband unconscious on the floor one early morning, and he spent some more time in the hospital, this time for an insulin overdose, I surrounded myself with friends and people to build me up, emotionally. One of the places I ended up was at a lifestyles party. A private party. Private as in I can’t disclose the place it was held, and I’m not supposed to name names, but I ended up going with Matt. I got in free because he convinced me to hide my wedding ring. Single women get in free. I spent four of the six hours just in shock of the people there, feeling each other up, having sex in plain view of others. I was the only one there, sitting awkwardly at a table, nursing a glass of ginger ale.
I ended up following Patrick upstairs and we both fell asleep in the hotel room. We were run out at 8am the next day.
Matt wants me to go back this weekend and bring Dennis along. Of course I still have to play the part of the single woman, for some reason. It would be cheaper if we paid as a couple, but this is Matt’s plan, and Matt calls the shots when it comes to public sex in this city.
Speaking of public displays of sexual encounters, Matt is my date for the Sweetheart Dance this year. In just two days we will awkwardly dance to a Buddy Holly song while dressed in 1950′s garb, and wait to hear how we lost at a 1950s dance competition. Again. For the fifth or sixth time. We’ve entered every year since 2008, and we never, ever win. Matt says it’s because I’m “so fat” so I blamed him, saying the judges thought we were both women. This year, I doubt that I can fit into my costume, but I can try, right?
Little One is actually waking up and sleeping peacefully for eight or more hours at a stretch. It’s really calming to have a baby sleep during the day while you’re still pregnant with said baby. We don’t know the gender yet (haven’t asked), but we have a unisex name picked out: Everly. I think it’s really strange that Everly is due on March 25th. My first child was born on February 25th, and Chloe was born on July 25th. The boys were due on October 25th, but because of some scheduling problems, they were born on Halloween. If Everly is born on March 25th, we’re assuming we’re having a girl. It just seems so right, you know? Have all the girls on a 25th. And yet we still forget their birthdays on a regular basis.
There’s the dilemma of a middle name. That will depend 100% on whether Everly is male or female. But we’re still deciding on that, despite the arriving due date.
Today Dennis was released from the hospital. I wasn’t ready for that. I wasn’t expecting him to call me and say that he got a ride back to our place. Getting that message at 6pm, I packed up what I could from Vance’s place, gathered my little ones, wrote a letter to Vance explaining where I was going, and left. He’ll find it at about 6am, when he gets home from work. It was harder to leave Vance than it was Dennis. Vance always kissed me good morning, good night, hello and good bye. He kissed me for no apparent reason other than I was there, and he felt like being affectionate. Dennis, on the other hand, thinks that by marrying me, he never has to tell me that he loves me anymore.
My mind has been wandering tonight. First from the medical tests that revealed Stage III cancers in two more places, to discussing surgery, alone, in that huge hospital, to knowing that I am going to have to see the therapist tomorrow. My tits are sore from the mammogram and the biopsies. My armpit is sore from the biopsy. I feel as though I will be alone in my battle, had I not gotten back together with Dennis when he called me. Vance would not miss work, no matter what, even the day that I had my Gamma Knife surgery. He dropped me off at the clinic, went to get coffee, and came back in about two hours and picked me up, distorted and disoriented. I was essentially alone. Today was a horrible reminder of this.
The thoughts that raced through my mind kept me anxious. When I heard the technologist tell me that lumps were found in my breasts, that a lump was found in my side, I wanted someone there, someone familiar, to hold me. I wanted someone to be there to tell me that yes, the road was a frightening and strange road, but that I was going to get well, and I didn’t have to go down it alone. That would have made the entire procedure 100% less frightening for me. The only person there was the technologist and I, and I certainly couldn’t hug her. She was so cold and sterile. The x-ray machine was cold and sterile. My nipples bled during the procedure. I was shaking by the end of the procedure, wanting to sit down between shots, but the technologist kept telling me to stand there, we were “almost done.” Forty minutes later, and much blood on the x-ray machine, I was told we were finally “done.” I was shaking. I’m not used to standing that long. I’m not used to something squeezing my tits that hard for that long, in those exotic positions. But I survived it. Alone. In that huge, cold, lonesome hospital. As I was walking back to my car, I saw that it was pouring rain out. I walked slowly to the car, feeling embarrassed that I had just shown my tits to a stranger, and that I had to face said stranger. I also felt as if the hospital was going to swallow me up, with the twists and turns and such. I just wanted to get home, change, and sleep it off. But then Dennis called to tell me that he had been released from the other hospital, and was at our house.
Gamma Knife surgery was as bad as the new diagnosis. They screwed a box to my head. Underneath the skin. The box was to keep my head still, and only allowing movement when the huge CT-esque machine was ready to move my head. Couldn’t they do this some other way?! I could feel the screws grinding against what I could only logically assume was my skull. I wanted to faint, but I’m not wired that way. I stay awake for the whole gore-y situation. No matter what is being done to me. The same thing happened when I got my root canals done a few years back.
Somehow, things just feel like they should be this way, you know? I feel as though I should be here, in this house, digging through a mountain of laundry, lightly teasing Dennis, while we watch worn-out, has-beens in rock. It just seems like this is they way things should be. Even though my heart is craving kisses and smiles and someone who doesn’t scream at the kids at every opportunity, the Continuum is no longer in danger of Chaos.
If you don’t get that last reference, it means that all life as we know it would cease to exist because I wasn’t playing my part in the Universe. Now that I am, I have saved mankind, somewhat. Be thankful.
On March 25, 2013, our family is going to change.
I was told on November 5th 2007 that I had had a partial hysterectomy. Turns out that translates to “we cut away 70% of your uterus because it was ruptured, but you’re not thirty yet, so we’re going to keep you nice and fertile.” And fertile I have been. In the past four years, I have had eight miscarriages. That stopped shortly after my birthday, and I had no explanation for it. Until now. As of Saturday, December 22, 2012, I am twenty five weeks pregnant, carrying what seems to be an indestructible baby. I don’t know the gender, but I was first told by a physician that my baby was dead and they wanted to collect the cells from my womb and close off the cervix.
Too late for that now!
I’m not sure how healthy my baby is going to be. I’ve taken Metformin, Cymbalta, Effexor, Fentanyl, Glipizide, blood pressure medication, cholesterol medicine, I’ve gotten drunk, I’ve taken reds, talwin, roxys. And still Little One danced for the ultra sound for us. Little One’s heart beat is strong. Little One will be born on March 25th, 2013.
The doctor who examined me said that it would be a bad idea for a vaginal birth, and I was relieved. I have never had a vaginal birth, and I don’t want one. It’s only recently that I have been waking up having an orgasm, being able to orgasm by simple penetration. Yes, I enjoyed every single minute of it. *swoons*
My husband started drinking on Tuesday night. I’m not sure why, just that for nearly the last week, all he has ingested is two bottle of Jack Daniels’ whiskey a day. His eyes had red rims around them. His face was splotchy pale, and when I demanded that he eat something, he threw it back up immediately.
I’m no longer wearing my wedding band. Back on Wednesday, August 11, 2004, he promised me that he would never drink alcohol again after we had an argument and I ended up falling onto the hard concrete ground, and he thought I had tried to attack him, and he fought back. I suffered a concussion, a broken wrist, on my right hand, a fractured cheek bone, and a broken knee. I still feel the pain from that hurt knee to this day. When I found out through his father that he was drinking heavily again, there were many thoughts that swirled through my head. The one I want answered the most is “Why? Why are you doing this when it’s so close to Christmas?” Then I slipped my wedding ring off. It’s a gold band with diamond “shooting stars” across the top. Inscribed on the back is L’amore è per sempre. Italian for “Love is forever.”, the lyrics to a love song that he wrote for me for our wedding, and is now amongst the hundreds of his on iTunes.
Looking at the ring, I cry. I remember when he loved me enough to not drink any alcohol. When I meant something more to him than a burden. The sadness flows through me steadily because I still love him. But I cannot risk him becoming violent. In my mind, I keep remembering when I was eight months pregnant with Chloe and his brother beat the shit out of me. My head injury was so severe that my blue eyes were black from the retina spreading so big, I couldn’t see, I fumbled for the door to escape, and he struck me from the back of my head. I don’t remember anything after that. I’m hoping that I passed out and that nothing happened between his brother and I. Now I come home from a two-week hospital stabilisation, and I find my love asleep on the living room floor, whiskey bottles surrounding the trash can, the Christmas tree on its side on the floor, no wrapped presents under the tree.
I did the best job I knew how to: I pulled my drunk husband onto our sofa, and covered him with a quilt. I cleaned up the liquor bottles, and started a small fire in the fireplace. My father in law and I picked up the Christmas tree, and straightened out the few presents that were scattered under the fallen tree.
The kids never woke up. I’m going to let Santa take the credit for me cleaning up Christmas.
I’m not sure what I am going to do next. What will be will be. But I know the kids deserve a decent Christmas, and Little One deserves to know their father.
Have a happy, peaceful Christmas, everyone. I’m going to post my usual Monkees graphic because the Monkees never get old! Neither does my graphic!
Did anyone else feel that? The world stopped turning! It’s all over! But it seems there’s internet access in Hell, and MacBook Pros, so it’s not all that bad. Plus instead of drinking from the polluted Styx River, I get an IV drip again. But Paradise wasn’t always so. I sleep more. More so than I should be. I am taken, every day, to that CT room, injected with something that makes me sit still, laying on that cold, sticky table, as I’m injected out and about a ring that I know I’m going to get stuck in. Tears pool out of the corners of my eyes, dripping onto a table where they will dry yellow. Yellow? I’m not crying piss, I promise.
My chosen one has chosen to go back to heavily drinking. Triggered, I requested a new, private room, not to be listed. Change my name if you have to, because when he starts drinking as much as he is, two full bottles of whiskey per sitting, he becomes violent, and having an IV tube so close to me, I’m a sitting duck. I might as well have my head in a noose and be standing on a three-legged chair.
The night nurse is gorgeous. I’ve been lusting for him since I met him on Monday evening after I was transferred to this specialty hospital. I’m the youngest on the Cardiac floor, and one of two patients of my night nurse. I have limited resources, just what I can pop on my phone. Someone sent me a shit load of music videos from the ’80s. I’m not too ungrateful, but I have to wonder why someone would send me Elton John videos along side hair band metal? Apple is probably scratching their heads over this. They must think that I’m some kind of a pervert. Ok, well, I am, but they don’t need to know that!
Last night I had my first shower in ever-so-long. Nurse Sexy said we were going to get in the shower together. I was a little disappointed that all that happened, somewhat, was that he helped me scrub down. I had my first six orgasms in that shower. *grins* He complimented my backside, then quickly corrected himself in saying he was talking about my tattoo. Sure you were, sure. I told him that I was dizzy from the temperature and pressure changes in the shower, so he told me to hold his hand. I grabbed a hold of something else, and he made it a point to tell me that wasn’t his hand, but he didn’t tell me to stop. Best single sided sex of my life.
I’ve been put on injectable insulin. We all knew it was going to happen sooner or later. Better now than never, huh? I don’t inject over four units at a time because my blood levels aren’t that high. Of course I’ve been chowing down on ice cream and Tootsie Pops and Life Savers since getting the news. No more Metformin for a while, we’re going to go straight to the insulin overdoses. Nurse Sexy came in and told me he had something for me to suck on, but not to suck on it too hard because the juice might come out too soon. He then gave me some kind of a medical lollipop, the outer part was to deaden my taste buds for the vile liquid center. And yes, my heart rate sky rocketed when he told me he had something for me to suck on that was going to explode in my mouth.
One thing that doesn’t help is that I have been put in isolation for so long that I feel worse being here. I question why I was admitted, but then I get a new medicine to try out, and my mind goes back to blank.
I’m hoping to get out before Christmas. Hoping. I know that hoping and looking at the actual statistical facts on hand are two different things, but I can dream.
We got a tiny snow storm while I slept last night. Nurse Sexy must have come directly to my room to check on me during the start of his shift; he had whole snowflakes in his hair. I asked how much longer I was going to be here. I actually want to be out in this snowy, wintery mix, amongst the dumbasses trying to drive on it, than be here, tethered to machines, my only escape is an iPhone with shit reception. I have a stack of forty or so unopened Christmas cards from people who just realised that I am not where I’m supposed to be. I want to go outside and play in the snow. Make a snowman and get some food colouring and really go to town.
While I want to leave the hospital, I fear where I am going to end up. Going home seems to be the right idea, but I don’t think I can go back there. I can’t live with a violent alcoholic, who refuses to get help. I can’t expose myself, my children, and the bun in the oven, to violence. At the same time, Chloe is bonded to her father. She loves him dearly, and after studying psychology for years, I know what may happen if I take him away from her. I have not asked why he started drinking again. Eight years sober, and now this. He came in to see me drunk. He said things, made remarks. I asked if Trevor was there, and he said no. When I expressed this to a mutual friend, they suggested that Trevor wouldn’t be honest, if he were in control, because he dislikes me. Trevor wants to sleep around, get high and wired, drive drunk, take swings at cops, then runs away, leaving Dennis holding the ball, getting in trouble. I’m not sure if I believe the Trevor Did It story anymore. There was a time when it made perfect sense, but now it just seems too convenient to be true. Dennis and Trevor have both hurt me. Trevor has never told me that he hates me, but Dennis has relayed to me that Trevor wishes I’d die, and that he never agreed to my marriage to Dennis. Dennis tells me that Trevor was the only one in the system who disliked me and did not wish to see me on a regular basis.
I’m rambling now. I should be trying to sleep, begging Nurse Sexy for another shower or at the very least some good pain medications.
And if the world ended, no one told me. So I’m still here, and apparently, so are you, so there.
Don’t forget to like my page here! You know you wanna, and that you can’t help yourself…
There’s been some changing brewing in my life. Not necessarily bad changes, but changes none the less.
It started about a week ago when I had a dream about a friend, someone I hadn’t seen in nearly ten years. Oddly enough, I was awakened from that dream to my phone ringing, and it was him. I feel that I have been dreaming of him for months now, the song he sang in my dreams, it was familiar. I ran the melody in my mind across some of Dennis’ recordings, and there has been nothing of the sorts that are familiar. It’s something that I wrote for my friend in my dreams. Freaky, huh? His phone call was simple: He wants to see me at the end of this month and the beginning of next, maybe over Christmas, like we did before. Before I could stop and think about it, I quickly replied, “That part’s over,” as I sat up in the bed. “What part?” he asked. “You know,” I replied. This wasn’t just a teenage fling that kept me busy when I was eighteen and nineteen years old. This was the man who introduced me to the world of heroine. This was the man who refused it himself, but had an endless supply for me. Me and the other woman.
The other woman was his other official girlfriend. We were both racing to get pregnant. Not me so much, since I knew I already was when I started fucking him, but I was more in it to fuck him every day, sometimes multiple times per day, just to keep him too exhausted to screw her when I left. He lived in the sam apartment building my mother and I lived in back in the Louisiana days, and I was still upset over losing Peter. Without a second thought, I started taking guitar lessons from him. His father had been famous in the 1970′s, and I was an eager student. I did what I could to tempt the lesson to be over so I could have that sweet poison and then sex. I wanted both endlessly, but had to stop at nine at night to scurry back to my apartment with my mother, before she got home from work. I never expected him to remember me, but he has. Ten years ago, we met up in his homeland, and yes, screwed again. I didn’t turn down the drugs or the sex, whenever he offers it, even though I know that I no longer need his “love” as a crutch. Needless to say that the other woman got pregnant. I was further along, and told him the baby was his, though I had slept with four other men before him, and knew I was pregnant before I met him.
Weeks went by, and my mother soon found out. I was shipped away to live with my father for the baby’s birth, and lost my friend in the shuffle of the bigger city life. My days were spent grabbing up college credits and fixing computers in a local high school where my father taught during the day, and I soon forgot my friend. When I threw out half of my life two years ago, I chucked the letters and photos I had that been sent from him. He believed the baby I had had was his. He had called me several times when I married Dennis six years ago, and I always was too busy to take the call. The Biz is really a small network, when you think about it, and subtract the fans. When your crack whore gets married to another crack whore, and has a couple of kids, while wanting just one more, word gets around. This man was no exception. He tried to get into our wedding, once with an invitation and once without, and he was refused at the door. Realising what a mistake I had made in inviting him and his wife, I put him on the banned list, that he shared only with Billy, and we had a smooth wedding, living happily ever after.
Only that’s not the way it’s been.
When he called me that sunny Sunday morning, it was to ask not only if I was coming to see him this year, but for his forgiveness. He said he knew what he was doing when he made me into an addict. He said he was lonesome and scared of dying alone, so he reeled in two women to live with him and compete for pregnancy. He asked how his “first born” was. I bluntly told him that she had died some three years ago of cancer, and she wasn’t his daughter. While he had Scandinavian good looks, she was more Greek-ish, with brown hair, brown eyes and olive skin. I often wonder if the wrong twin got me knocked up. Dennis and his brother were famous for that, switching women with each other. I often wonder if my boys will do the same thing when they start dating.
We chatted for some time, and he left me with that trail that I hate: “Sorry that I ruined your life and made you hate me.” The line was then dead. Um, fuck you? You didn’t ruin my life, I did. I knew what could happen when I took that first hit. I knew I was going to become a slave to the injections of the hot liquid (he had a glass syringe he melted everything in), to the feelings of being incredibly sexy and having a male not only go all the way with me, but want me more than once, and what I assumed was crave me. I didn’t mind the other woman, she was merely a competition. Someone I knew that I could beat because I had the upper hand before the game had already started. He told me that he had every intention of marrying me, but that I slipped away, and he had to marry her because she was pregnant with his child. My turn to snort. “You don’t have to marry someone because you knocked them up,” I replied, already perched at my perpetual place, googling as fast as my fingers could type and my computer process.
One of the plus points of having well-known friends is that there is almost always something about them on the web. Reading through his page, I read that he had several (aka: a dozen or so) kids with the other woman and she had left him. Hmm. Wonder why. When I questioned him about this, he said it was because he wanted to make up for that mistake he made years ago. “She wasn’t a mistake,” I replied. “Oh no, I meant losing you,” he quickly replied. I’m sure that was his original intention.
We talked for a few more minutes, and then Chloe came into the room asking if we could go outside, and I agreed. I told him that I was going to have to go for now, but that I would talk to him again. He mumbled his “you hate me” speech, and that irritated me. I’ve felt that I need to call him or otherwise get in touch with him, if nothing more than to drill it into his head that I am not a hating person. Doesn’t matter what mistakes people have made that have caused me severe life changing events, I can’t hate the person. I can hate the situation, that is fine. People weren’t meant to be hated.
For the past week I’ve wondered if he was suicidal. I made excuses for what went down years ago, and then I metaphorically kicked myself for thinking that way. I thought about bringing this up in group therapy, family therapy, or one-on-one, but I can’t do it. I just can’t vilify someone I once cared about.
Coming home from another Premiere with Dennis, I told him that I was happy that our life turned out the way it has. I don’t know where that came from, but I really meant it. At least we’re not my ex, calling a desperate fling in hopes that someone will still talk to them. Dennis has been severely depressed since before our anniversary. I think my getting upset caused some of that. I apologised for it almost immediately when I went back over my notes from therapy. I can’t vilify Dennis either. He has his moments, but it’s me that chooses to be hurt or to harp on things. Let them go. Just let them go. The words I whisper to myself several times during the day, as I’m scribbling in my notebooks, or when I am conversing with someone whom I have unresolved conflict with. I wonder if they remember the conflict they have with me? I know it’s not so easy to let things such as that go, but I can hope that no one hangs onto things as I do. Perhaps that is why my mind is never clear. I used to celebrate meaningless anniversaries when I was a child and a teenager all the time. They mean nothing to me now, but then they were my entire week.
Watching the celestial sky for the Leonids, I silently hoped that my ex was not suffering, physically or mentally, where ever he was. I hoped that Dennis could kick the depression that he was going through and that he did not dwell on the words that I spoke so carelessly just a month ago. I thought of the offer he had run past me, and I really wished I could go back and agree. I wanted to do this now. I wanted to go out there and face the shore wall, just one more time before it washed away the last places that I thought I’d always be able to see again. I wanted to do that so badly, but I had declined and now someone else has my place on the trip. Dennis is devastated that I am not going, as if those summers were just a waste of time to me then. They were not. They were not meaningless. I remember living out some of my happiest memories there.
When I spoke coming home, Dennis was reading a paper from Geoff. He barely looked at me when I spoke. I was driving. I said I wanted to make it up, and he replied that my place had already been taken. My first thought was to threaten to run off with my ex to some exotic place up north for the winter, but I realised how foolish that would be. Did I really want to be the mother who abandoned her children because their father was driving me up a wall? Did I really want to be the wife that turned her back on her husband and rushed back into the arms of an abusive ex, whose intentions may just to be to get me close and inject me with poison and lies once again? Since when do I run from my problems?
After the Premiere, Dennis said we had to take one of his friends home. I was glad for that, since most of his friends and I do not get along. He handed me a paper bag of my medicine that we had picked up from the pharmacy before the Premiere, and gave me a long, tight hug. It felt as though the hug was fueled by despair, sadness. I started to ask what that was for, when he pulled away and said, “Please don’t be fucked up on those pills when I get back. Please?” He wasn’t asking me. He wasn’t telling me. He was begging me. I gently pulled away and walked into the house. I’m sure he watched me go. Dumping the medicine bottles out on my desk, I saw what was in the mix. My old poisons. I put them on the shelf with my other medicines.
It was after nine at night before Dennis came home. I heard him walk down the hall and check the bedrooms, when I was sitting in the living room; he had walked right past me. Upon finding me, he just stared for a few seconds. “All the pills are in their bottles. I didn’t take any,” I said. He immediately smiled and once again, I got that long hug. This time, though, it seemed that the hug was fueled by something different. Relief, happiness. Love, perhaps.
The concert is canceled. I found that out by just searching for it. No one who was going with me bothered to tell me, so if I hadn’t done my own Googling, I never would have known.
The asshole won’t budge. Everything I want to do for a day that was meant for me, is “too [insert incredibly stupid answer here].”
Looks like for this anniversary, I’ll be spending it alone with my friend James. One can only assume where I’ll go from there.