Meditations on life from me (who's not so bad) and my irritatingly loud inner voice (who mostly eats babies), written by both me and the voice. The imagery of the rose conjures romanticism (me) and cynicism (the voice) in the forms of beauty (oh, I do flatter) and betrayal of beauty (...bitch). Every rose has it's thorns after all, such is the experience of being human.
Lately, I've been mildly obsessed with introspection. Not the middle school kind. You know, when you close your bedroom door, plug in your mock electric candles (because your mom doesn't trust you not to burn the house down at the grown-up age of 10), put Sarah McLachlan's "Angel" on repeat for hours and cast new-age, poorly-interpreted Wiccan curses on the various boys who could never love you... Well, actually now that you mention it, the feeling is actually pretty similar.
What I'm talking about is really sitting down and getting this life business figured out. Books I'm reading and seminars and workshops I'm enrolled in are all pointing me to this astonishingly omnipresent idea:
POSSIBILITY
Totally hokey, I get it.
Despite the adages, "You can do anything you set your mind to" and "the sky is the limit," that word POSSIBILITY has been ultimately absent from my life. The whole business of being born, learning some colors and numbers, going to schools where the government ensures we can pass standardized tests that tell us who we have the potential of being, so we can drop out or go to trade-school or college and keep on this predetermined track, laid out for us by society's vision of how each socioeconomic class is supposed contribute to the status quo.
...this is actually quite true.
For example: I am a white woman from middle America. Raised in a suburb of Chicago, I was expected to do well in school, babysit my neighbor's kids because girls are nurturing and responsible, get a job at a pizza place to learn American work ethic, go to liberal arts college...and then what? Now I am working as a University Administrator.
Essentially I am a gussied up version of a secretarial type that has been historically characterized in the U.S. often by the color "white" and most definitely by the gender "female." Just google image search: "administrative assistant" to see for yourself.
Where was my choice? They say the U.S. is "land of the free" and yet, there are well-trodden paths we are all just going to follow. Unless something or someone interrupts, we the zombies plod along the railway laid out for us by our predecessors.
This kitty has no self-esteem. :...(
Though it's not just the predetermined path on which we embark from birth. There's reactionary behaviors I've had my whole life that I didn't even know about. I'll procrastinate all the time because I tell myself I'm lazy. Or I'll procrastinate further on something I've BEEN procrastinating because I don't want to look like a fool or get in trouble for being lazy. See, the "being lazy" part was a fucking self-fulfilling prophesy rather than WHO I AM. What I did was I thought it, then I also made it real. I took the unreality of some dumb stuff I said to myself and made it real.
THAT's some choice, huh?
The thing I'm taking away from all this intellectual exercise on thinking (GAH!) is that thinking simultaneously means everything and does not mean anything at all. To elaborate, if you honor your thoughts, you will be the things you think because you will act on them. If you do not honor your thoughts and choose NOT to be reactionary all the time, then you will have more freedom to be whoever you want. It's hard for me to know, at this point, if that means anyone really CAN be anyone they want. This...this sounds like a B sci-fi psychological thriller just waiting to happen.
The lead character in this drama is Self-awareness. She is an unrelenting, unapologetic, but totally liberated bitch.
...self-awareness? girl, she as crazy as you! And she don't take no trains.
But, the only way to be truly free to choose my life is to figure out all this shit. Otherwise, I'm just going to keep on keepin' on the same tracks, let my inner voice dictate how I act and thus who I am.
Now that I know this, how could I possibly let it happen?
Before posting today, since April, I've redone this damned blog about 4 times. Different colors, pictures, the url has changed. I changed anything I could other than add new writing to it.
Often when I think of writing, I think of the time differential between having thoughts (milliseconds) and the physical act of writing (foreeeeeeveeeeeeeeer). It seems nearly impossible to take the many hours to transpose thought to paper without forgetting what you thought in the first place! What I also forget is yes, thoughts change during the journey of writing. And that's ok, Sara. You're gonna be ok. It's all gonna be ok.
All of the following are important and merge to create the writing process:
1. your ever-churning reckless production of thoughts
2. mindfulness
3. the physicality and pace of your hands.
(4. oh, and editing, but we won't count that... haha...ha...haa....)
Hey, I know. This picture is laaaame. But I can put whatever pictures I want here, it's my damn blog.
It is (2) and (3) I forget always when thinking-thinking-thinking away. I think, holy hot damn, my hands would hurt like I jerked off a good couple thousand horses if I wrote as fast as I am thinking these weird ideas right now. But...only having thoughts are not enough to write. You need it all - that is (ready?...)
the process by which mindfulness harnesses the spontaneity of thoughts through your physical body into the physical realm.
Three cheers to integration!
Speaking of which...
The other reason I don't write is due to this bipolar-ish superiority/inferiority complex type thing. It makes me feel like two completely different assholes that are not writers.
From the facebook photo album: ME!!11!!1 :)
I'll disparage myself to the core when I think of my (lack of) abilities in relation to a particular art form...until I actually do said art form. As in sit down and create something. Then I'll show it to someone and get good enough feedback. That's when my ego goes, "what's cookin', good lookin'" on repeat for days. That is, until I realize I could never live up to its expectations. Then sadness. And productivity dies. More sadness.
It's like my mind is a penis.
...Just bear with me a second.
It's like my mind is a penis. After I haven't been productive for a while, it's a penis that is very insecure with itself. When it isn't all pumped full of love blood, it's lonely and sad. It limps and looks down at the ground every where it goes and isn't very obvious to anyone. To the point where other people totally forget it could ever, EVER, get inflated (with an ego, you see). My mind thinks, "oh, if I don't create anything with this dumb useless tool, no one will know how lifeless I am. Wonk, wonk."
But then, it gets INSPIRED!
Inspiration can be sexual sure, for the sake of jiving with this mind-penis metaphor. It can be inspired by the environment or by biological influences. For example, inspiration can come from:
-other people's writing,
-just some regular influx of serotonin or dopamine or otherwise a generally good mood,
-taking my vitamins in the morning,
-a cup o coffee extra in the afternoon (which is currently the checked box, squeee!),
-some vague mortality reminder.
Those are the big ones. Each of those reasons, that causes me to actually write, turns my ego into a big one. (See what I did there. I meant big one as in huge throbbing penis ... oh god, it's alrEADY HAPPENING.) I'd better stop now before I write up metaphors on how life is a rose and shit and really blow my load.
Oh, shit... I'm fucked.
In any case, I should go home now. I have to go ... do laundry. and make dinner. and go the gym. and and and and never have children.
Who doesn't just love the bathroom at work?! Come on girls, let me hear you say, " HEEEAAAVE, hoe!"
You think I'm being facetious, don't you?
You think I'm going to list all the reasons why using public bathrooms are the worst thing since using public bathrooms, I just know it.
But think about it. You get to get away from your office for a few minutes and do whatever you want in there. There's no oppressive stinker of a supervisor present to tighten your sphincter for you. No one will judge you out loud, criticize you. Everyone is always so damn nice and skiddish outside of the stall. And inside of the stall, you have total anonymity. Even if your shoes are recognized, no one will dare call you out. The best thing about it is that no one can tell you how to pee, no one can tell you how to change your tampon or tell you how to poop! ...mostly because there's just one way to do it. But it is oh-so-gratifying to take a good shit. If you don't think so, if you're lying to yourself right now saying that I'm crazy...
Because give me a break, you know you love it. At the very least, you WOULD love it if you hadn't internalized the "EW GROSS EW" poop mentality. This all applies especially at work! If everything you do all day means virtually nothing, all you do from 9am-5pm is deal with other people's shit, then by-god-wo-man, be proud of the shit you created yourself!
Receiver of the Party-time Efficiency Seal®
It is like a great accomplishment. "I have exercised regularly and taken in enough fiber, hooray!"
Or it is like a reminder. "Ouch, I should really drink more water and ease off the chorizo burritos." (Like that'll happen.)
Or it is like a good flushing, especially if you're on a diet. "My goodness, it only took 10 minutes (lol) to take 2 inches off my waistline!
Or it is like an after-party on Monday mid-morning. "Aaahhh, this is the one good thing that comes from having a hangover. Beer shit at 10:15am, ftw!"
So, all of the above there is pretty personal, though I'll TOTALLY bet that there are plenty of other ladies that feel the exact same way about their bathroom habits. Only thing is, the trend among femmes when it comes to potty talk, is about how horribly disgusting the bathroom is and how disgustingly inappropriate EVERYONE ELSE acts in there.
Main topics of lady bathroom disgust:
♀ EWWW the bathroom is so gross omgomg don't touch anything!!!(1.2.3.4.5)
♀ GERMS!!!(1.2.3.4.5)
♀ Pee on the toilet(1.2.3.4.5)
♀ Drip-drying(1.3.4.5)
(Note: this is usually an offense committed by the woman who will not help a sister out with some goddamn toilet paper. See "Just three squares! Or even a ply!!!" by Elaine from Seinfeld for reference. -->)
♀ Hanging out for more than a few minutes afterwards/hogging the counter (1.2.4)
♀ Talking to someone in a stall (1.2.3)
♀ Last person didn't flush (1.2)
(this includes " If you just got back from your trip to a developing country where
people live on a gallon a day, do not inflict
your newfound POV on users."
...wow.)
♀ Gossip(2.3)
♀ Being alone(2.3)
(Note: this is an offense committed by the person who left her alone)
♀ Lack of reporting when a toilet is clogged (3)
♀ Talking on the phone while you're in a stall(3)
♀ Shitting when someone else is present(3)
♀ Spraying heavy floral scented spray over shit-smell(1)
♀ Leaving hair that you've brushed out of your head everywhere (1)
("Wet hair clumps look like dead animals, and there's nothing worse than watching hair and soap battle it out down a drain." (1) ...well I can think of a few things, like poverty and real dead animal battles, yknow, zombie sheep eating and shitting all over each other.)
So you see, everyone's got an opinion about how to do it. But then again, everyone's got an opinion about how to do virtually anything. Don't get me wrong, all the stuff about cleaning up after yourself is right on. It's just ... well ... all that complaining is so damn prissy! It also reinforces the societal-wide opinion that girls are clean, that our vaginas are dirty and morality-spoiling, that hygiene is symbolic for moral purity (...but that's another topic for another time.)
Which brings me to a point here about the threat of massive amounts of shit piling up if someone doesn't clean it up. That person should also be YOU if it's your own mess. Accountability. BAM. There's nothing that has grossed me out more than the scenes in Jose Saramago's Blindness that describe the sheer horror of shit everywhere.
All of that is shit. I'm not kidding.
"It is not just the state to which the lavatories were soon reduced, fetid caverns such as the gutters in hell full of condemned souls must be, but also the lack of respect shown by some of the inmates or the sudden urgency of others that turned the corridors and other passageways into latrines, at first only occasionally but now as a matter of habit. ... When it became impossible in any sense, to reach the lavatories, the blind internees began using the yard as a place to relieve themselves and clear their bowels. ...in search of a foot or two of clean ground, if there was any amidst that endless carpet of trampled excrement ...and also the slight mounds, now almost flattened, that barely covered the dead..."
But the thing is, in the ladies bathroom, if there's a sprinkling of urine (which is sterile for the most part) on the toilet, give your nerves a break and just deal.
To read the dude's perspective, here's a link to a most hilarious post by my friend Marius, blogging Cartoon Stink Lines: http://cartoonstinklinespoop.blogspot.com/2011/04/laws-and-customs-of-room-of-rest.html
References for list o' offenses:
1. The WH Bathroom Ettiquette Guide.
http://www.womenshealthmag.com/life/bathroom-etiquette
2. The Ladies Room Monologues (video) and Bathroom Humor for Women. http://www.femalerestrooms.com/
3. International Center for Bathroom Ettiquette.
http://www.icbe.org/womens-bathroom-issues/ & http://www.icbe.org/womens-bathroom-issues-ii/
4. How to Properly Use a Public Women's Restroom.
http://www.ehow.com/how_2128418_properly-use-public-womens-restroom.html
5. Women's Ettiquette 101.
http://hubpages.com/hub/Womens-Restroom-Etiquette
Photo credits
http://www.icbe.org/category/toilet-babes/ <--yes, that is a whole blog of hot women on toilets.
Last week, I started this blog thinking, "IMMA FINALLY DO THIS BLOG THING EVERY GOD DAMN DAY." And what happens? Of course my computer gets a virus after the second one. At least I got to say I wrote blogS. Luckily, I.T. was able to fix my Dell friend relatively promptly.
So, in the spirit of that buncha bullshit, all I can think to write about are jinxes.
You know you believe in jinxes. This is especially relevant today because the weather calls for scattered thunderstorms. Only if you don't bring your umbrella to lunch, you're going to be *THE ONE* solely responsible for an imminent downpour. You also didn't wear a coat with a hood and are wearing white, you idiot. (I am only berating you because I didn't wear a coat with a hood and am wearing white and it makes me feel better...heh, I digress. o.O)
You're, uh, welcome?
Though, as demonstrated to your right, jinxes can be blessings in disguise. Isn't it beautiful? Like if someone else totally hot did this and jinxed the weather. But, see, if we can go for an advanced lesson in jinx instruction for a minute, I have to tell ya, unfortunately that beautiful disaster right there could never happen. Here, you must consider the case of an opposite jinx: if you saw this beautiful specimen on the street wearing a white shirt and it looked like it was about to rain, you just can forget it. FANTASY OVER.
P.S. The universe revolves around you at all times so you'll never get to see that happen -->
P.P.S. please do yourself a favor and think of David Boreanaz as caught in the rain here, and not sweating so profusely as to saturate his cotton shirt with putrid human saline solution or lubricant. Unless you're into that kind of thing... Hey, no judgment here. Fantasize away.
In all seriousness, though, those omg-of-COURSE-that-would-happen-to-me moments are made of majik. Wikipedia, everyone's favorite source of ultim8 trooth, tells us that jinxes occur for several reasons. Among them:
A type of curse placed on a person that makes them prey to many minor misfortunes and other forms of bad luck;
A person afflicted with a similar curse, who, while not directly subject to a series of misfortunes, seems to attract them to anyone in his vicinity.
An object/person that brings bad luck.
A common slang term used when two people say the same thing at the same time, said as a game among children.
But to me, the strongest of those is when you "(talk) about a future event with too much confidence." You will also cause a jinx, as with the example of today with the forecast of thunderstorms, if you choose to do something in direct, haughty, conceited and otherwise egotistical opposition to the worst case scenario. Observe. Scenario: Gloomy day, forecast of rain. Opposition Action: Consciously not bringing umbrella outside. Jinx: FUCKING TORRENTIAL DOWNPOUR FOR EVERYONE, ESPECIALLY YOU, JERK.
The example the Wikipedia article used is the muthafuckin Titanic, which was said to be unsinkable.
With those breasts, Jack should have used her life vest.
Yeeeaaahhh, way to go, assholes. Arrogance tempts "the-almighty-whomever-controls-your-circumstances-and-favorite-stuff." So you better not make "it" feel like being mad at your or even give it the opportunity to act mischievously and fuck your shit up. Everyone knows that.
Come to think about it, that could be why I hate arrogance so much. C'mon, You think you're so much better than everyone else you can just be horrible, completely disregard caution, live your life intrepidly without abandon and not get jinxed?! Ooooh, buddy, (I'm not really boring or anything and) you'll get yours!!!
Ok, so this is a bit of a non-sequitor, but I wonder if the belief in jinxes is a sort of folk lore left-over from when religiosity and common knowledge were so entangled that no one could tell them apart. Oh, shit, maybe I am religious - indirectly, of course, but still, ack!. I mean, the phrases: "Goddamn!" "Jesus, what the...?" and "Holy Fuck!" pop out of my mouth regularly, after all.
No, no nooooo, NO NO NYOOO!
This can not be! I do not like religion and find it's influence grotesquely inversely proportional to it's logic and it makes people act stupidly and irrationally!
I don't find that ironic at all, no no. But just in case, I should use my trusty jinx remover if you just in fact witnessed me jinxing myself into a spiritual rebirth.
This is the second post. What else was I supposed to think about when #2 comes up?
...
Um ahem! without further ado, let us BEHOLD:
Harmless obsession or downright madness?
You be the judge.
On second thought, how about I be the judge! (Pun alert:) Wouldn't it be great if when a guy/gal was staring at your tatas while you're talking, you could just yell: "ORDER IN THE COURT!" and then s/he'd instantly respect you all of a sudden? Pshaw, as IF we had authority of our own breasts, sheesh, like we had control over our bodies or something. I would sentence all culprits to 2 tickets to next year's Lilith Fair. Non-negotiable. (Take me with you?)
"God damn it, that Sara is getting all feminazi on me again." I can just hear it. But let me tell you something. I don't know what it is, but the power of boobs has me, too. That right, you heard me! Now I can hear you again just about as loud, "Hmm, that Sara just got interesting." How ironic; I get interesting as soon as I'm on your side discussing the magnetism of the bosom. But, hey. As long my eyes are up here while we're talking about them, then that's alright with me.
♫ Let's get it on. Aaaaaaaahhh! ♪
Most of these ladies reading this have probably had experiences diddling the same sex in college, in one way or another. Most of these dudes reading this also probably have as well (uh oh, wait! I mean...well, that could be too, couldn't it?). In any case, it's pretty commonly accepted that the female sexuality is more, AHEM, fluid than dudes' on average. While it is perfectly interesting to investigate why this is, to be honest, I couldn't give a tit less.
But let's say....let's just say it isn't because men's stimulus bullshit is more visual and thus directly correlated with blah de blah and the women's arousal state is enticed by emotional fuck this stereotypical nonsense, but instead, it is all because we love food.
What the fuck does food have to do with sex?
EVERYTHING!
Which brings me back to boobs.
From whence came our first nutrients in the cold, cruel world? What provided our first warmth and comfort and FOOD, FOOD, GIVE ME MORE FOOOOOOOOOD. It just so happens that boobs are not only nourishing, but they are also a secondary sexual characteristic that bloom (gag me, word choice) when women can get all pregnant. The procreation and FOOD aspects to these are irrevocably, eternally intertwined and there's nothing that fat doesn't make more delicious. amiright?
Seeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeex.
You know, it's funny, Codename:Hools and I started a coup against food/sex metaphors a few years ago. We no longer stood for restaurant commercials that featured the sensuous slathering of juicy BBQ sauce over a rack of ribs. (There's definitely some biblical-inspired insult there, but I digress). Also any commericial with honey in it, we cast violently from our sight. It was a small, yet mighty coup, but now I wonder if we were... wrong. Food and sex have been intertwined since the dawn of time. So to speak, of course!. I swear I don't believe that people have existed since the dawn of time really, it's just a figure of speech! Jesus, you guys are gonna think I'm some religious nut now...
Anywho, I suppose the moral of the story is that boobs are awesome and so is food.
That doesn't mean my eyes aren't still up here, though, guys.
That's a pretty logical spew to start, right? "The first one." How creative, Sara! WOW! You're a real writer now!
Hm, let's make this interesting. The first thing I think of when "first" comes up is first kiss. Now that was quite a story. Well, maybe not so quite, but you know.
In any case, I started internet relationshipping before anyone I know, that's for damn sure. On weekends, when I was a kid about 12, I'd hang out with the same folks to play chess with at night. My friend and I trolled AOL chatrooms, we lured unsuspecting creeps into cybersexing us.
We were maybe 12-13 at the time, were girls from the suburbs of Chicago, but I tell ya, if the stats "16/f/CA, teehee" didn't get 'em every time. We didn't even know what sex was to be frank (well, my friend did at the time, as she was into adult romance novels), but it was hilarious with all the "oo"'s and "more'"s we wrote, we could illicit the nastiest chat sessions. I suppose only insofar as penis talk is nasty. Come on, we still believe in cooties. Boys are made of gopher guts, ring a bell? Believe me; it was nasty.
Turns out tweens are the creepers.
Then there was J. I found him when I was 15. He was a sweet boy, a year older than me. He sent me a picture of him. Of course I printed it out in black and white and drew little hearts around it and used it as a book mark til it got all dingy (I had a dirty-ass backpack, apparently!). He could borrow his dad's car, and he wanted to take me to the movies. We chatted a while. For about a month. And about what, I honestly have no clue. I'll BET I still have chat correspondences that I printed out in a shoebox at my ... MOM'S HOUSE. Oh god, I hope she never saw those... oye. *Shake it off* Anyway! We proceeded to upgrade to talking on the phone. It felt heart-wrenching to realize that I had never set my eyes on my true-love's (yeah, I was 15, what of it?) face, and was secretly terrified that he would find me disgusting. Little did I know it was me that would think that of him.
We finally set up a time to go on a date!!!!!!!!!!!!11!!!1! You wouldn't believe how beyond-thrilled I was to finally meet J. Tall, dark...really dark from my printer's shitty quality, but oh, how he was handsome! My best friend R was going to come with me, because despite all my intrepid internet adventures, there still remained a modicum of internalized socio-technophobic "EVERYONE ON THE INTERNET IS A PREDATORY PERVERT OMG I JUST THREW UP MY ANTI-PSYCHOTICS THINKING ABOUT IT." She, then, was set up on a blind date with J's friend. I told my mom that a friend from school was picking me up to go study at the library. Classic, Sara...but it paid to be a real nerd, just saying. We were in business.
STUD MUFFIN CONTAINER.
J rolled up to my sweet crib (town home in Vernon Hills) in a sweet ride (Dad's minivan). He was so handsome! I couldn't believe I was seeing him for the very first time. He came in, of course, and met my mother. I don't recall the look on my mom's face because there was NO way I could make eye contact with her at this juncture. ...Aaaand, come to think about it, this was probably the moment from which my mom thought I was sleeping with every guy that came over to my house. Even though I didn't have my first sexy time til I was 17 (another first for another time ;)). Moving on! What did he have in store for all of us? A movie of course!
So...if you know me at all, I have the absolute worst sense of direction. (Let me demonstrate: a few years ago with my bff and former roommate codename:Hools, we'd gotten our licenses changed to reflect our new matching addresses that were not our parents'. We piled in her car after the DMV visit, and I spent about a half hour in complete denial (and actually argued!!!) that the electronic compass on her rearview mirror was, in fact, correct. I digress.) So, what I remember from the entire date a decade ago? Two things, vaguely. The first, getting terribly lost in some cornfields in northwest Illinois. The second, the kiss.
What you've all been waiting for!
I repeat: Fucking. Horrible.
What can I say. My first kiss was...
Fucking Horrible.
First of all, let me tell you where my mind was at. It's important for a lady to be in the right mind-set for a kiss, no? (<--say that in French. Also, escarot, ha ha ha.) I told him I had kissed other boys before, even though that was an outright lie. So I was a liar. Also, this was occurring right in front of my mom's front door, so I dreaded getting caught. Not to mention I was a novice. Added to the psychological torture I felt in the moment, he had his part. His tongue was the softest I've, uh ew?, felt to this day. It was like a super slug that wouldn't stop moving! It moved in my mouth, did the tonsel hockey thing and I thought he choked me for a second, then along my lips and a little on my face, like dog or some Magda who can't seem to get the lipstick to stay on her lips.
And, so, I said goodbye, he said goodbye. He drove away in his dad's minivan. And we never talked again.
I, of course, have speculated basically endlessly (or what felt like endlessly to a 15 year old girl, which means for maybe a month) over why it was that we never talked again. Honestly, it's like he licked away my dreams in one fell swoop-lick, only for a month. For that month following the *shudder* kiss, I went back to my friends, I played sports in the field behind the neighborhood with my dude friends without agonizing over the future with my new love. It also helped that he never called me back. o.O But I cared not! I was a new woman, and thus flowered my feminist brain that didn't need a man! That is, until this really cute tow-head boy named M moved in next door to me. Le Siiiiiiiiiigh.
...
Wait! I did talk to J again!
It was on okcupid.com, where I was yet again internet dating a whole 9 years later. I found him as a match of mine. It was a whopping 94%, too. On the site you go by a screenname or an alias (mine was ALIASilicious ;) ), but I KNEW his name was J. I could not remember from where I remembered him. Naturally, I messaged him. He also recognized me, but was not sure from where either.
Did we go to the same school?
Did we have mutual friends?
...I think I remember associating you with my girlfriend R from junior high?
Hmm, did we go to camp together? No...that wasn't it.
We went through the stages of waking a sleepy memory by messaging back and forth like this for a couple of hours until...I remembered...
Me: OH GOD! YOU WERE MY FIRST KISS! Wow, I was terrified, and man, was it bad! (Should I have said that? Not sure, but I did.)
J: Heh yeah I was pretty scared but remember feeling all pimp in my dad's minivan lol (No punctuation, eh? So you're one of those...)
Me: So, wow, yeah are you in the Chicago area? (Why am I trying to hit this?)
J: Uh kinda in the burbs. Sometimes I go out there for a show I'll let you know next time I do. (BURNED!)
Me: Ok, sounds good. It was nice talking to you! (Savin' face.../facepalm)
