Dateline Minx

Someone mentioned the 13th of May to me the other day. An appointment or a meeting — a doctor’s appointment, maybe. The date struck a chord, but with my amnesiac goldfish memory, I couldn’t remember why I was supposed to remember the date.

I knew it was something. Which is almost, but not quite, helpful.

Then, out of the blue, I got a pingback on a post I wrote nearly six years ago. Oh speed! Be still, lest you dizzy me. And it hit me.

May 13th: my bloggerversary.

It’s not as though I still blog or anything, this post notwithstanding. But it was a long time ago, in a galaxy far, far away and while it would not be entirely true to say I miss it, I do cherish a special form of nostalgia for the days when I poured out my anguished heart in front of all of you.

It always came sometime around a specific local national holiday. The first “Emerging on the Other Side” post was written as a result of a crushing blow to my heart from the man who I then believed was my true love and my soul mate. He wasn’t, obviously. At the time, however, this was not something of which you’d have any joy in trying to convince me. It was only six months later, when i suddenly realised that everything was somehow always all about him, that the scales fell from my eyes and I healed.

This was back in 2005. Nine years down the line and I’ve progressed a lot. The past decade has been a journey of self-exploration and discovery for me, and the truth is that it really did begin with the blog. The events about which I wrote were the catalyst. The blog was my walking stick, my propeller, the magnet which pulled me forward.

I no longer need to blog. The creative outlet that once I craved I now have as part of a daily personal and professional routine; something I couldn’t and wouldn’t have envisaged way back then.

I have met new people — and shared air space with old friends — finally!

I am happier in myself, both personally and professionally.

My sex life is much improved, and I no longer feel the need to explore. I rule nothing out, of course, but I am no longer a slave the the elusive “must-do”. I know who I am, sexually speaking, and while I continue on that particular journey of fun and excitement, it is no longer the driving force in my life, For which I am grateful — there are only so many wild oats that one can actually sow.

They say you can’t go home again. In a way, this blog is a part of my home. I can come back, but really only to visit and say hi.

So hi. It’s been real.

Minx, signing out.

Pushin’ it with Pushkin

I loved you – Pushkin

I loved you; and perhaps I love you still,
The flame, perhaps, is not extinguished; yet
It burns so quietly within my soul,
No longer should you feel distressed by it.
Silently and hopelessly I loved you,
At times too jealous and at times too shy.
God grant you find another who will love you
As tenderly and truthfully as I.

How lucky I am

How lucky i am. I need to remind myself more often.

(You can consider this a post in lieu of a bloggerversary post, so I didn’t stick to the exact date and am a couple of months later than I should be, but since i post on avergae once every two months I say suck it up and enjoy the rarifed read, people.)

It occurred to me just now, when I was listening to our entry on the Eurovision this year. We came 15th, but to my eyes, ears and general opinion, it was one of the most beautiful songs ever submitted to Eurovision, both in concept and execution. Noa, or to give her her full title, Achinoam Nini, sings with Mira Awad:  an Israeli and a Palestinian Arab singing together in glorious harmony about how there must be another way to communicate, interact, live, love, be.

Too fucking right.

THe song brought tears to my eyes, and made my heart ache.

And I thought, thank god i can still feel.

I shut out so much of the world, I close it off. There are a limited number of people i can talk to and even then, i cannot be constantly burdening them with my inability to function like a normal human being becaise of the crippling guilt and self-imposed restrictions from which I cannot seem to break free.

But while I can still cry, at least I know I’m still alive and I haven’t given up yet.

Although some days, it’s a close call.

Of course I also like to torment myself, and after watching that Noa song, I then watched this one. And cried even more.

Rant in bitch minor

Fuck, it’s been ages since i posted here.

Sorry. I find dealing with the reality i have at home far too exhausting to write about it. My distractions I document elsewhere, and frankly I’d rather write about them. This is my creativity, this is my soul satisfaction.

However, I’ve opened up my elsewhere to important people — and by default, a troll has found me. The troll knows me IRL, kinda, and has been asked politely but firmly not to read my elsewhere.

She says she won’t read there, of course not, she understands my need for privacy. She respects that, she respects me, she loves me like a sister.

The fucking cunt is a LIAR.

Not only does she read me but she has read me constantly and consistently since she found my elsewhere. She is an insecure, passive aggressive bitch and she is pissing me off. To feed her would be to award her the (albeit negative) attention she craves. I will not do that. She deserves my contempt, my pity — perhaps my sympathy, but right now I am far too angry at her willful flouting of my polite and logical request that since we share the same *circumstance*, she butt the fuck out of the intimate details and concentrate on her own.

Naturally, of course, instead of concentrating on her own details, she compares herself to me and mine. Big mistake. Huge. Not only am i way out of her league, but she completely fails to appreciate what it is that she actually has. And i even told her, the second time i politely but firmly requested that she keep her snout out of my biscuits, that she was being a fool to herself — comparing her situation to mine, all infused with NRE, is futile. What she has is in fact several stages more mature and more established. Were i in her shoes, i would be delighted. She has a keepsake that symbolizes so much more, one that – if I am completely honest – I would be suffused with joy to be offered. However, no such keepsake is currently on the horizon for me, as far as I can see, so i don’t push the subject and I try not to think about it.

But the passive aggression is getting me down. She asked me never to speak of her behind her back — which not only would I never have done, but i promised her faithfully, with all good integrity, that I would never do. She then proceeded to do just that about me. Pouring poison into the ears of others because of her own selfish insecurities and immature jealousies.

She had the gall to ask my forgiveness for something she wrote about me on another site. I forgave her — i am secure enough in myself, and in my situation (keepsake or no, it’s a case of timing and not intent) to be able to not assume the guilt that she throws on me like so much fecal garbage. I allow it to roll off my back, and stand clean in it’s midst. I know that this is not about me, it’s about her, and i leave her to stew, bubble and eventually ferment with any luck, in her own juices. But i cannot lie to you, it hurts. It hurts a lot when someone slaps you in the face. It fades and is eventually forgotten. But it hurts.

This is my salve, this is my ointment. By expounding my hurt, my rage, my anger here, i heal. I stand apart. I value and cherish what I have and i cast her aside like an unwanted pebble from the inside of a shoe.

I was her friend, and would have continued to be her firned — and I ma loyal, i am trustworthy, I am a friend worth having. She has missed out on that, and that is her imense loss.

I feel sorry for her, i can’t even bring myself to hate her. It requieres too much emotion and i am not prepared to invest any more energy in her. This is mysanctuary and it allows me to draw a line — this is the end. Aside from this and possible future rants, i will not allow her the satisfaction, even unknown, of bothering me any more.

Really Awful Erotica

I post this, with a note thanking my dear friend L, who co-authored this with me and generously allowed me to post this on the Minxdom. A special shout-out also to my friend D, bless his 70’s music loving socks,  for providing the first line.

And now the reasoning behind this post. Recently, I have read some utterly TRAGIC crap in the sex blogosphere. Seriously awful. Yawnworthy in the extreme. Boring as fuck, basically.

Now I know that to each their own, and different strokes for different folks and all that. I mean, come on! There have even been those who would denigrate and rubbish my own erotica, back in the day when I used to publish any on the Minxdom. Yes, Miss Ch, you four-eyed lousy daughter of a camel whore, I do mean you.  However, as we all know, those people suck and are not worthy of shit.

Heh.

But there is a basic standard of sex-writing — and to call some of it erotica is to overstate it by vast proportions — which has sunk so low that it’s almost laughable. Some of the phrases and imagery in the below were pilfered from online genuine sex-writing, purporting to be erotica, but in reality being an online written wankfest for the writer, and the lover to whom they wrote.

And I thought… fuck, I bet I could write worse erotica than that. I wonder how difficult it could be?

Ergo, EvilMinxProductions brings to you, with all due fanfare and happy dances, the Absolute Worst Piece of Erotica Ever Written Ever.

Ever. No kidding. It knocks everything i was talking about above into a cocked hat. Trust me.

***************************

“I’m just a lurve machine”, he told her, swivelling his hips and toying with the velcro fasteners on the sides of his black PVC man-thong. “And I won’t work for nobody but you”.
 
She giggled with glee. PVC always made her bosoms swell. If she pinched hard enough, her cheeks would turn red too, and she knew this would turn him on —  although she never did quite understand why making her face red aroused him so.
 
She ran her tongue over her lips, saucily, and savoured once again the powerful aromatic sensual flavors of the chicken vindaloo they’d just shared. A gentle breeze from behind reminded her of cardamon and the exotic east.
 
She prayed her love machine wouldn’t need his usual kickstart. The stiletto boots made her bunions hurt.
 
“You want a bite of my Big Kahuna burger, while i fuck you doggy-style?” he asked her, as he generously offered her the greasy package in his hand. “Food always makes me feel sexy.” She demurred, but licked her lips copiously anyway, knowing his penchant for cherry-flavored lipgloss. “Hold it for me anyway, babe — I need to get a good grip on those bri-nylon hot pants.”

She held his burger firmly yet gently, with an experienced flair that made him ache and long to empty himself over her. He smothered a burp just in time and tasted the vindaloo all over again, deciding on reflection not to mention the Special Sauce.
 
He pumped his hard and greasy cock into her (having not been able to resist stroking it before handing her the burger). He could feel mountains of lovejuice swelling inside him. He thrust as he spoke, the staccato increasing with his indigestion:

“You. Want. Me. Don’t you? Baby. Oo. Yeah. Give. It. To. Me. Good.”
 
She squealed like a 3-day-old puppy and squeezed him with her bulging vaginal muscles, all the while attempting vainly to suppress the nagging worry of whether there was enough carpet cleaner left in the bottle, and regretting not buying more when she’d had the chance the previous day. After all, it had been on sale, and the  boy who bagged the groceries was quite dishy, in that acned, greasy-haired teenage kind of way. The smell of sex hung around him like that of old crusty socks, overpowering her with its masculinity. 
 
She was reminded of this as she looked down at her lover’s feet, planted on either side of her like ficus, clothed in their trademark  white polyester. How she loved the steaming dampness that arose from them after a good night’s sleep! The aroma gave her an extra frisson of delight as she felt him squelch deep within her.

“Stick it in me, baby!” she yelped orgasmically, drowning out the Star Trek convention taking place downstairs. With extra effort, she suppressed all thought of the Trekkies, only to be recalled much later, when there was a special screening of the Tribbles episode into which she was  planning on sneaking. She saw his toes in their manly white socks flex rhythmically, digging into the nylon carpet. This evidence of his passion and the sight of his hairy muscled calves was almost enough to make her gush all over the carpet — like a waterfall, a summer storm, or the leaky tap in the bath — but she restrained herself, ever mindful of the dearth of cleaning fluid.

He rejoiced at her yelping and pounded her even harder, ignoring the electric shock generated between his big toe and the carpet beneath the hardened piece of gum on which he was standing. He knew she was nearing her peak as soon as she began to shout out the names of the final eleven in England’s 1966 world cup-winning team.

“Nobby! Bobby! Jackie! Gordon!”
 
He  waited to hear “Besty!”, knowing that was his cue.

“Fuck,” she groaned, throwing her head back and smartly rapping it on the wall. The hollow echoey sound it made frightened yet soothed him. “YES!” she screamed, as he prepared to pump happy swimmy sperm into the swirling category-five hurricane of her orgasm.

“OH YES! Besty! Oh, Besty!”

*************************

Eat your heart out, Ms Ch. Bite me.

J’Accuse

You know who you are. I don’t even know if you still read here. And even if you do, whether anything I have to say will resonate, let alone have any effect.

But I have to say it, nonetheless, because your behavior disgusts me so utterly, and this is my vent space.

Shame on you.

She needs you, and where are you? So self-involved and wrapped up in yourself that you can’t afford a drop of compassion to send her way.

You, whom she idolized.

You, who could have asked her for the moon, and had her combing the internet for travel agents who flew there.

You, for whom she’d have done anything because that’s who she is. The best friend a girl can have.

Every girl, that is, except you. For you, it’s all too much drama. Of course the drama in your life you swing about you, shedding droplets evenly in a wide circumference. But that doesn’t count, does it?

Over the last 18 months, you have foisted your myriad problems and grievances with the sad little way in which your life is unfolding — oh woe is me! nothing goes right for me! everything is bad for me! — on those around you in the blogosphere, as well as, presumably, in real life, akin to so much fertilizer, hitting any and all who pass your way.

You have attempted to shamelessly milk largely undeserved (so it would seem in retrospect), sympathy from anyone who would pay you even a nanobyte of attention.

But when it comes to someone else who needs you, someone who has been there for you time after time after time — and i actually find it hard to comprehend that this has to be explained in words of one syllable to a grown and highly-educated woman over the age of 40 — and suddenly it’s all “too much drama.”

Shame on you.

Rot in hell, you cold-hearted bitch.

Like bad pizza

I did not have a peaceful night. I tossed and turned from the wee small hours until i had to get up and get going.

 

This was as a result of worrying about something that keeps repeating on me like bad pizza.

I am talking about my husband, his control-freak manner and how i deal with it — whcih i hardly need add is not well at all.

 

10 years of being suppressed and controlled and stifled and suffocated might go a long way to explaining why i have such an acute fear of choking. Metaphorically, i have been choking for years.

 

Recently, over the last few years, the pressure upon me to succumb and say niothing exploded, and i found myself acting out. I do not aportion responsibility for my actions to anyone but myself, but the catalysts and reasons behind them came not from me.

 

How i react to him has constantly been ineffective. The articulacy that you see from me in my writings, and for the most part, when i speak, has no effect on him. On the contrary, he calls it “your (my) psychobabble bullshit”. Since these are the only tools i have with which to communicate, i can only understand that he sees me as less than a submissive — as simply part of the furniture.

 

When we agreed to reconcile in May, i truly believed that he was capable of listening to me, and more to the point, hearing me. That we had communication, borne of many years of being together, was the sole reason that i agreed to stay with him.

 

Events of the past few months would prove me wrong, sad, and deluded once more.

 

He simply does not listen to me. My voice is of no consequence. Therefore, to him, I am of no consequence. It happens over and over again, and I stay, deluding myself that it is in everyone’s best interests.

I don’t know how to deal with this. Advice welcome, but for the love of gods, make it constructive.

Omnivorously minxy

Now then, people. New shit. The Garden of Earthly Delights is written by Dea, whom I just plain adore. She’s one of the best writers i have ever encountered, particularly on the web — and so prolific it’s actually scary.

She posted a foodie meme, which, as she says:

“…originated here as The Omnivore’s Hundred, a subjective list of 100 food items (not all gourmet, but all “iconic” in their way) that Andrew Wheeler, co-author of the British food blog Very Good Taste, thinks every omnivore should try at least once in her or his life.”

I am shamelessly copying her meme, although i find myself embarrassingly inclement when it comes to the varieties of food I haven’t tried yet in my nearly-forty-years on this earth. And if you saw the size of my ass, you’d also have trouble internalizing how little I’ve eaten.

Mind you, it’s definitely one in the eye for my dietician. Heh.

I’m even more embarrassed about how many I’d never heard of — thank heaven that Wikipedia is my friend. And i have to protest the American slant that the list has. Also, in some of the foodstuffs, i have marked as affirmative if there is an equivalent European or cultural or ethnic version that I have at some point consumed.

Anyway, it being a meme, it has rules. Here are the rules:
1. Copy this list into your blog or journal, including these instructions.
2. Bold all the items you’ve eaten.
3. Cross out any items that you would never consider eating.
4. Optional extra: post a comment on Very Good Taste, linking to your results.

1. Venison — yes. *slurp*
2. Nettle tea— yes. feh.
3. Huevos rancheros — no
4. Steak tartare — yes, yum!
5. Crocodile — er. no.
6. Black pudding — no, not yet.
7. Cheese fondue — hell yeah!
8. Carp— Many times. Mostly as gefilte fish, but also as fried fish. Oy, flashback of my mother frying fish, wearing her shower cap. Eeek!
9. Borscht— Yep. With sour cream. Scrummy.
10. Baba ghanoush— Often. I had some this morning, on fresh bread. Deeelish.
11. Calamari — nope — I am not a seafood person.
12. Phở — i had to look this up. No, but i’d love to.
13. PB&J sandwich— Yes. I have a variation which is even better: marmite/vegemite and jam. That is da bomb, dude.
14. Aloo gobi— Indeedy-doody. Had some for lunch today, at this fabulous authentic Indian place.
15. Hot dog from a street cart — No. But they don’t have them as prolifically where i am, and where i’m from, as they do in New York, so I can put this down to being culturally challenged. I’ve had tons of hot dogs. With mustard, ketchup and onion.
16. Epoisses — No.
17. Black truffle — No, I wish.
18. Fruit wine made from something other than grapes — Elderflower. I would tell you how it tasted but i don’t remember, because i got so plastered on it that i passed out.
19. Steamed pork buns — No, i am not a piggie-eating person very often.
20. Pistachio ice cream — yes, love it.
21. Heirloom tomatoes — probably.
22. Fresh wild berries — yes, we used to have blackberries growing at the end of our garden.
23. Foie gras— hell yeah. On toast. LOVE IT. (Sorry, gooseys.)
24. Rice and beans — lie, duh.
25. Brawn, or head cheese — ugh. (Looked it up.) Feh. No.
26. Raw Scotch Bonnet pepper – nah. Chillis don’t do it for me, i’m not bovvered.
27. Dulce de leche — yes, once. Ambrosia.
28. Oysters — only crackers.
29. Baklava—  many times. Divoon.
30. Bagna cauda — No, but I wanna!
31. Wasabi peas — wasabi, but no peas.
32. Clam chowder in a sourdough bowl — no clam chowder, no sourdough bowl, although i have had soup in a bread bowl.
33. Salted lassi — Who killed Lassie? And why salt her? How can she rescue Timmy down the well now? (I hide my foodie-challenged-state with humour, heh.)
34. Sauerkraut — yes
35. Root beer float — no, and i beg cultural-deficiency for this one too (see # 15).
36. Cognac with a fat cigar — Yes, and yes, but not together.
37. Clotted cream tea — yes 🙂
38. Vodka jelly/Jell-O— yes. Several. At the same time. Heh.
39. Gumbo — Nope. Again, not a seafood fan.
40. Oxtail — No, no desire to.
41. Curried goat — No, but I have read it.
42. Whole insects — Not intentionally.
43. Phaal — No, but when i get to Brick Lane next, I will.
44. Goat’s milk — Yes, oddly enough, i had a lot of goat’s milk growing up.
45. Malt whisky from a bottle worth £60/€80/$120 or more — yes i have, and it was worth every penny.
46. Fugu — No, and I’d have to know the chef personally and trust them fully to eat it.
47. Chicken tikka masala — Of course. I’m British.
48. Eel — No. Ick!
49. Krispy Kreme original glazed doughnut — No, see # 15 and # 35.
50. Sea urchin — No.
51. Prickly pear — No.
52. Umeboshi — No.
53. Abalone — No. Snails do not appeal to me.
54. Paneer — Yes.
55. McDonald’s Big Mac Meal — Yes.
56. Spaetzle— Yes, and in the Schwarzwalde too. Jealous much?
57. Dirty gin martini — Hell yeah, baby.
58. Beer above 8% — I’m not a beer fan.
59. Poutine — no.
60. Carob chips — yes.
61. S’mores — No, see # 15, # 35 and #49.
62. Sweetbreads — No.
63. Kaolin — The witness from the OJ trial? I am not a cannibal, I’m a Minx.
64. Currywurst — No.
65. Durian — No.
66. Frogs’ legs — No. Poor little froggies.
67. Beignets, churros, elephant ears or funnel cake — No, and once again I plead cultural deprivation.
68. Haggis — Veggie haggis, yes.
69. Fried plantain — yes.
70. Chitterlings, or andouillette— I’ve had kishkes — does that count?
71. Gazpacho — yes.
72. Caviar and blini— Salmon caviar, yes. Blini (or, as I call them, blintzes), hell yeah. Both savoury and sweet. Fablious. But not together.
73. Louche absinthe — no, but i wanna, a lot.
74. Gjetost, or brunost — no.
75. Roadkill — er — do the fuck what? Of course not!
76. Baijiu — no, but i would, in a heartbeat.
77. Hostess Fruit Pie — again, with the cultural bias of this list, It’s outrageous. No.
78. Snail — No. Blech.
79. Lapsang souchong — Yes.
80. Bellini — No.
81. Tom yum — Yes, and i loved it.
82. Eggs Benedict — No.
83. Pocky — Yes, i bought some in a Chinese supermarket in London.
84. Tasting menu at a three-Michelin-star restaurant — No, not yet.
85. Kobe beef — No, not yet.
86. Hare — No, bleugh.
87. Goulash — Yes. Love it.
88. Flowers — Er… wtf? God no.
89. Horse — NO!
90. Criollo chocolate — No, I wish.
91. Spam — No, I do NOT wish. (Walks away humming “spam, spam, spam, spam, spam, spam, spam, spam, loverly SPAM, loverly spam…”)
92. Soft shell crab — No, seafood. Feh.
93. Rose hariss — I am not ashamed to admit that i have no idea what this is, and i couldn’t find it in WIkipedia.
94. Catfish — No.
95. Mole poblano — No.
96. Bagel and lox — Are ya shittin’ me? Of course.
97. Lobster Thermidor — No, but I’d LOVE TO. (Unsubtle hint to any gentle reader who might want to take me out for an expensively messy dinner.)
98. Polenta — Yes.
99. Jamaican Blue Mountain coffee — Yes, fresh ground too.
100. Snake — No, and I never will.

Wanna do the meme? Go for it, but let me know that you have.

Back, and newly-employed

I am BACK!

Yes, fresh from the poolside recliners and chlorine-impregnated waters of Blackpool-on-Sea-Except-Abroad, i am here. Much has happened in the life of the minx, and it behooves me to fill you in… and I will. Calm yourselves. Patience.

Or as I once said to a friend at 3.00 a.m. “Easy, tiger.”

So, you’ll remember the Bosshole. And the Letter. The one I didn’t send. In lieu of sending the Missive of Fuckyouness that i wrote with such pithy (and pissy, come to that) ire, I sent something else instead. My résumé. To many people.

I had tired, you see of my Former Occupation. I used to do something Technical, and i wanted to be able to use the skills I’ve been honing by blogging for y’all, and earn substantial sums of money doing so. Well, not all the skills. I can’t find a way to earn the living that will keep me in the style to which I’d like to become accustomed, that’s legal, or possible during the hours i have in which to work (i.e., the hours where the young Minxette and Manx are otherwise occupied). So it seemed as though I needed to stay within the world of IT, which meant finding a company who would take a chance on an albeit talented writer, who — on paper, at least — had nothing in the way of marketing writing experience.

Well, i couldn’t show them this blog, now, could I? You think they’d be able to read this and then keep a straight face during a team meeting?

Of course not.

Anyway, i found a company and showed them some of my more vanilla writings, and they hired me. I started this week, and so far, so hoopy.

To quote the utterly fabulous Eddie Izzard, “So… um… yeah.” Or maybe I already said that? Either way, things are looking up.

Oh! And most important of all… I have decided to venture into the realm of being a professional author, and get some of my creative stuff published. Apparently there’s a name for the kind of fiction i write: Flash fiction. Or, in my case, flash erotica. It’s a fairly descriptiive name in that it refers to fiction that is no longer than 1000 words or less, even. THis is incredibly good news for me because the way I write naturally lends itself to that phenomenon. NOt that I couldn’t write a longer story, say, or even a novel or a play, I’mn sure i could; but  the way my life works, I simply don’t have the time and space to do that.

In truth, I’d always believed that I was simply undisciplined, but apparently it’s an art form. Or something. Either way, wish me luck. Any and all tips are welcome, because i could use some sound advice.

More soon, folks, and this time it involves food…

So… yeah.

So, here i am, bumbling along in my usual manner, happy as a clam, blonde as a bombshell and minxy as.. well, a Minx.

Life is good. Sorry i can’t paint you the angst-ridden pictures of yore, but hey, shit happens, and that’s the way it is right now. And long may it continue.

In recent news: the bosshole finally got his comeuppance. I didn’t send the letter, much as i wish i’d have had the guts to, but Karma was on my side and i got a new and much more interesting and better paid job, so I resigned and things are looking up.

It’s the Summer, also, and the entire Minx brood are off away for some fun in the sun. Fun, as far as I’m concerned, comprises lying prostrate on a sun bed, slathered in Factor 45, listening to my iPod and ignoring my children. And CH come to that. Just call me “Beached Whale” — it’s a fair comparison.

I love reading my stats, and i’ll be looking forward to seeing who came here between now and my next post. I showed them to CH last week, he was amused to see quite how far-reaching some of them are. From Japan, to Uruguay (I know!), to the good old US of A. And all over the States, too — from California to New York to Florida to Rhode Island to Georgia to Oklahoma… and the list goes on.

Fucking big, the US, innit?

Anyway, this is just a ramble to say that I’m still alive and kicking. When i come back from holiday, i’ll be more prolific in posting. Promise.

Be good, y’all.