A Memo from the desk of Too Much Information

Me: sorry for sleeping so late. I put the sheepy sheets* on my bed last night and it was so snuggly in there i couldn't bring myself to get up. It was like a uterus. Now I'm going to spend the rest of the day eagerly awaiting bed time, just so i can get back in it.

Mom: Why don't you go back to bed now?

Me: I'm wide awake. What would I do there.
*pauses*
Don't answer that.

Mom:** You know what they say: sex is like bridge... if you've got a good hand, you don't need a partner.

Me: ...




*We're having a cold snap. The temperature was below zero last night. That's zero Farenheit. So I put the flannel sheets on my bed. My flannel sheets have little cartoon sheeps all over them. They are seriously cute.

** Mom runs a twice-weekly, ACBL-sanctioned bridge game for a bunch of nearly-dead local residents. I shudder to think where she heard this.

Practice makes perfect

or as an old coach of mine used to say, "Perfect practice makes perfect."

Sex takes practice.

I didn't think it could get any better than it was, that first night, all those moons ago. That was thrilling and exhilerating and wonderful. But bodies are wierd, geometry is tangly, things don't always stay where you put them, angles are awkward, and you can't always reach your goal. Sex takes practice. Well, no. Sex is easy. Great sex takes practice.

And practice we do! Every weekend is better than the previous one, and I'm only just now beginning to realize the full extent of the potential here. Damn. I had no idea it could be like this.

BIG QUESTION, and also dogging

First Question: what is faith?
I recently read a definition of "faith" that called it "the unknowable promoted to the irrefrutable."
(9 Chickweed Lane by Brooke McEldowney, April 3 2007)

(Click for bigness)

I've spoken with a lot of Christians about their definition of faith, and this seems to encapsulate it quite nicely. I've been told by several people "faith is something you choose to believe," and they readily acknowledge that you cannot know for certain the thing you believe in, hence the need to believe, rather than know, it.

So, if we accept that definition of faith, my

Second Question is: Why is faith a good thing to have?

In the Gospels there is a bit after the Resurrection where Jesus appears to the apostles who are cowering behind a locked door. Everyone is ther except Thomas. Jesus appears, everyone's amazed and happy, and when Tom gets back they tell him what's happened. He announces that he won't believe it until he sees it for himself. Next week, same deal, except this time ol' Tom is in the room when the Big JC floats in, and he pokes his fingers into Jesus's wounds and delcares "My Lord and God!" And Jesus utters the famous sentence, "You have seen and believed. Blessed are those who have not seen and believed." (John 20: 19-29)

Why??? Why is it good to believe anything without good cause? Why is it a good idea to be utterly convinced of something you openly acknowledge you don't actually know to be true? The concept of faith, espeically in America, is held to be a great virtue. I remember during the 2000 presidential election there was great speculation as to whether Joe Lieberman's (Gore's running mate) religion (Jewish) would be a negative factor for Christian voters. It wound up not being an issue. The vast majority of people polled said they didn't care what he believed in, they were just glad he was a religious man.

I find it strange that as a society we think that believing things we know are unknowable is a good way to go about life. It just doesn't make sense me. If I were to say to you "I believe there are giant, invisible bunnies hopping around the streets of Bristol. There is no evidence for this idea, but it cannot be disproven, and so I choose to believe it," you would think I was nuts. You would say there's no logic in it, and just because I want to believe something that doesn't make it true. And you would be absolutely right.

So why is the very concept of faith held to be so virtuous? Why do we think it's a good, noble, reasonable thing to believe in things we cannot know?

I'm not trying to be arguementative here. I'm genuinely curious to know what you think about this. I'm really struggling with this idea.


Lastly, continuing along the theme of things that baffle me, while I was out with my mate yesterday for a couple drinks and a flick, we went into the ladies' loo at the Arnolfini and discovered, much to our amusement, that there was a couple in one of the stalls having sex. Very loud sex, complete with heaving breathing, moaning, grunting, the periodic and cliche'd holy exclaimation, and of course the ever-popular skin slapping. I admit it: I giggled. It was pretty funny.

One or more of you lot was involved in that encounter (Spinny??), give a shout out!

Post-coital banter in the house of the Bitch

"Just for that," I said, recovering my breath from an unprovoked tickle-attack, "you get to sleep in The Wet Spot."

"No problem," replied the Pirate, as he vigorously dried The Wet Spot with a piece of cotton cloth. "Oh, here's your pyjama top."

"You fucking bastard."

Um, ok then

Definately the first time in my life I've ever been described as a "hipster."
I'm not even sure what that term means.
I think the bits about "You're unusual and emotional" and the stuff that comes after that is accurate enough, though.
Except maybe the bit about how easy it is to seduce me. That makes me sound, well, easy.
I'm not easy, am I?
Hmm.
Or do they mean it's easy for me to seduce others? Ha! If only they knew...

Giggety giggety giggety, all riiiiiiiiight

So we're lying together *after,* enjoying a post-coital glow that makes Chernobyl look like a smashed lightning bug's ass on a windshield, and this is what I hear. Giggity yourself, sweety.

Cultural Priorities

I've just come from Boots, where I purchased exactly two items: dental floss, and lubricant. I was astonished to discover that the cheapest dental floss available at Boots (their own "Smile" brand) cost MORE than the Boots brand lube.

Let me say that again: dental floss is more expensive than sex lube. Thus, lube is more accessible to the general populace.

Could this be why Britain has the highest teen pregnancy rate and worst oral hygeine in western Europe? I think we need to re-evaluate our cultural priorities.

Two beefs

First, (cuz we all know where my priorities lie): porn.

Why the fuck is it that if you go googling for some new porn, it doesn't matter what you type in, all you get is a bunch of pages that are lists of links, most of them to pages that are still more lists of links, and so on and so forth. Where is the actual porn???

So I'm taking suggestions. If you know of a particularly good porn site, tell me what it is please. Here's what I like:
1. Lots of sounds, moaning, breathing, etc.
2. Camera shots of faces, not just dicks and pussy
3. (and this is the biggie) Lots of free sample videos. (I can't actually afford to subscribe to anything.)
Sexual orientation matters not. I'll take straight, gay, lesbo, group, whatever. On you mark, get set, GO!


Second beef: BETA blogger. I havn't switched over yet. I've been nervous about what it will do to my blog and my commentators (that's you lot). I've noticed lately that on certain blogs (such as Timorous Beastie) when I go to leave a comment it doesn't recognize me as Chaucer's Bitch, but as my real-world meat space name. This seriously pisses me off. What the fuck is it doing bandying about my real name??? If I wanted to use my real name I wouldn't have created a webID in the first place. If I switch to BETA blogger, will it make all of you use your real names? Or am I doing something wrong? Why is it doing this?

Would those of you who have made the switch share with me your observations of the new system?

And is anyone else having difficulty with the system showing their comments by their real names instead of their webIDs?

Dry spell and footwear angst

First of all I'd like to aplogize to all the foot fetishists out there who arrived at this post because of a Google search. I'm afraid you're in for a disppointment.

Dry Spell. My first ever. Since that first night with the Hairy Man way back in March, I never had to go more than a couple days without. Certainly never longer than Monday morning to Friday night, and the 3 to 4 times a weekend was more than enough to compensate for that. And of course I jumped right out of the Hairy arms and into the Pirate's, so the spell was never broken until he set sail in the beginning of September. I remember thinking after that night with Hairy, "Ah! So this is how the rest of the world lives! I could get used to this..." And I did.

27 years of involuntary chastity, 6 months of regular, hot, wild, slippery, skin-slapping action, and now a 3-month drought. It really is all or nothing with me, isn't it?

I've heard people whinge about "dry spells" before, but now I find myself thinking, "oh, so this is how the rest of the world lives."



and the other thing that's pissing me off right now:

WHY THE FUCK DON'T THEY MAKE WOMEN'S BOOTS WITH VARIABLE CALF DIMENSIONS?????

Look, I've got huge legs. I admit it. (No point in denying it - I couldn't hide them behind a refridgerator.) I tried to buy a pair of wellies last winter, and I'm not shitting, I couldn't get WELLIES over my giant calves. Wellies, for fuck's sake! Had to buy the men's ones.

Women's shoes come in variable widths: narrow, average, wide, etc. Surely women's calves vary in circumference as much as feet vary in width! So why the fuck don't they make tall, sexy, brown leather boots with extra-wide calves? Why God, WHY?

If anyone out there (HC? You're the shoe expert around here...) knows where I can buy a pair of affordable boots with a (brace yourself for this one) 44-centimeter calf circumference, PLEASE let me know.

Unnerswears

Why can't I buy sexy lingerie that's tasteful and isn't made for a 6-year-old? Why is this so difficult? Everything is all either neon pink plastic hollywood trashy crap that i wouldn't let my daughter wear even if she was a hooker, and the rest had fucking Disney characters on it! (well, not Disney characters engaged in the act of fornication, but you know what i mean.)

Why is it all either this:

























or this: (someone needs to explain to me how a grown woman dressing up in pastel-flowered cartoon character underwear is sexy. that Whinnie the Pooh bra just takes paedophilia to a whole new level as far as i'm concerned. making grown women look like pre-pubescent children is just creepy. like shaving your crotch.)










Why is there nothing in between!?!?!?!? mumph.

Penis Post

A new drug for premature ejaculation is available, reports this week's issue of New Scientist. In a clinical trial of 2000 men, all of whom typically ejaculated less than 1 minute after penetration, the time to ejaculation was:
1.8 mins for men on placebo
2.8 mins for men on 30 mg dose, and
3.3 mins for men on 60 mg dose.

This struck me as lovely news, until i read the following:
"Marcel Waldinger, a neuropsychiatrist at Leyenburg Hospital in The Hague... is concerned that phaymaceutical compaines may be trying to 'pathologise' a condition... that belongs to normal sexual performance." In his 2005 study among the world's males' time taken to ejaculate, the average man lasted only 5.4 mins. (yes, that really is a decimal point.) In Turkey, the average was only 3.7.

5.4 mins!?!? really? um, wow.

Here's what this says to me. This says to me that popular culture has led us to have unhealty, unnatural, unrealistic expectations of men's staying power. We've seen this effect before, in our obsessive desires to have microwaists, DDboobs, and perfect tans all year round. At the same time that we've been bombarded with unrealistic expectations of our bodies, we've also been bombarded with equally unrealistic expectations of sexual performance. Egad. I actually feel sorry for men. (and Turkish women).


In related penis news: Bluto is defiantely a boy.

There was considerable doubt as to the authenticity of the little guy's true gender, as it's rather difficult to tell with hamsters. But this morning as I took him out of his cage so i could clean it, i was rubbing his belly and i accidently encountered, his, um, all right i'll just say it: i rubbed my hamter's cock. Not deliberatley, mind, but apparently he likes having his belly scratched a little too much.

I feel like i need a shower.

A Farewell to Arms

...and hands and shoulders, to hard thighs, bristly cheeks, and gentle lips. Farewell to laughter, hugs, late-night chats, stimulating conversations, romantic dinners, and fantastic sex. Farewell to happiness: The Pirate is gone.

Just moments ago he set sail for distant lands of exotic climes. He will, perhaps, return in a couple months' time, but all is uncertainty. As it stands, by the current plan he will return at the end of November. But pirates change their plans more often than their knickers, so who knows.

What a send-off, though. He arrived here Friday night, and after a meal of my preparation we drove to his house, where the showers are hotter and the beds are more spacious. And then we spent the entire weekend together, talking about world events and laughing at our own idiocies and others'.

We went to the zoo on Saturday afternoon. I had hoped to spy one of the monkeys doing something that would inspire the parents to shield their children's eyes. Instead i got a whole zoofull of monkey engaged in such activities. FanTAStic. I love monkeys. That evening we went for an uber romantic dinner at a hotel near his house. It was the kind of place where the waiter puts the napkin on your lap for you. We gazed at each other through the glow of the candles and talked about our future plans.

Sunday morning we went to Church. The Vicar spied a new, young coupe in the congregation and immediately, like all good clergymen, smelled blood in the water. He cornered us (very cordially) on the way out, welcomed us, asked if we were married and, upon hearing our reply ("No"), suggested we tie the knot right there at St. Bart's.

We left the church and spent the afternoon up at Ashton Court, lazing around in the tall grass of the meadows, lying in the sun, dozing, talking, and flicking spiders off one another. A more lazy and enjoyable day I have never had. Sunday evening we came back to mine and sat around watching Jeeves and Wooster.

And this morning he was gone.

Funny thing is, I don't feel empty or alone or morose at all. Though it is disappointing to know that it will be some months before my eyes again enjoy the delight of his smile, I know that he keeps me in his heart, and that ultimately our relationship is based on far more than geography, and so this temporary geographical inconvenience is of little concern.

You will, of course, be the first to know when he gets back. Meanwhile, you'll have to put up with months and months worth of whiney, sexless posts. Ta!

Part III: Between a sponge and a soft place

"It's Manchestering* again," I commented as I settled myself into the Pirate's car.
"Mm."

(Manchester, v. to drizzle pitifully, as it does every single fucking day of the year in Manchester.)

We approached a T-junction on a country back-road. The windshield wipers were squeaking.
"Clear to port?" asked the Pirate, looking out his window to the right.
I looked out my window to the left. "Clear to port, aye Sir," I responded without hesitation.
The Pirate turned at looked at me with bewilderment.
"If you didn't expect me to respond in nautical terms," I said, "Why did you ask the question in nautical terms?"
"Habit. I've just never met a woman who knew what I was talking about without me having to explain it first."
I smiled. He pulled the car out and rounded the corner to the right, still shaking his head.

When we got back to his place there were a few awkward moments of How do we keep this night going? We were both afraid of that dreaded declaration, "I'm off to bed now, goodnight." He showed me the guest room. I sat down on the desk and started chatting. Anything to postpone saying "goodnight." I asked him if he'd ever been to America.

"To New York. Would you like to see the photos I took?"
"Sure."
"They're on my computer." (Of course they are.)

Which was, naturally, in his bedroom. Are you guys aware that one of the best ways to cozy up to a girl under reasonably innocent pretentions is to get her to squeeze onto your desk chair so that you can both see the screen? Do they teach you this in High School? They should. It's brilliant. We were jammed together, each with one butt cheek haning precariously off the side of the chair. The Pirate put his arm around me to hold us up/together/on the chair.

We looked at the pictures. I commented that he had a good eye for composition. And then it happened. That moment. You know that moment when your eyes meet, and you know that you're going to kiss, and you know he knows it too? That moment of perfect understanding, inevitability, when you think 'This is it. Here we go." He leaned toward me slowly, agonizingly slowly. It must have been 10 minutes from the moment our eyes me to the moment our lips followed suit.

Kissing the Pirate was unlike anyone I've kissed before. (Grand total of, um, 5.) None of your random, willy-nilly, hither and thither tonge flailing. Every movment of his lips and tongue was, not so much calucated, but deliberate. It was like the difference between listening to a child bang enthusiastically on a piano keyboard because he delights in the noise, and listening to a composer at work as he trys new things, new combinations, but always with the confidence that precise knowledge of exactly how each key sounds will bring. In that way he played me. For hours and hours he played on my mouth. He composed sonatas on my neck, symphonies on my breasts.



And here I must end the continuous narrative. By now you know where this is going, how it ends, but to continue on this line, to reveal every delicate detail of the night would be to profane the memory of the experience. I won't give the minute by minute breakdown, but I will share with you these highlights:

He was wearing smaller underpants than I was. I don't know what that signifies. Probably that I need new underpants.

Mount Olympus is going to ring any minute and demand their body back, because the Pirate is blantantly walking around in what can only be the stolen body of a Greek god. You think I'm exaggering: I'm not.

More than just physically marvelous (which it was), the Pirate was completely in tune with my emotional state. He said several things to me over the course of the evening that showed he was aware of and appreciated the many sides of my personality, and liked them all. One thing in particular (I wish I could share it with you, but some things are just too intimate) I keep playing in my mind over and over. In one sentence he demonstrated that he had me completely sussed, that he saw me as I saw myself, that he saw all of me, and not just the facade. I've got friends who have known me for years who never got that far down into my psyche, and he did it in a couple hours. Almost scary.

It was full light when we finally went to sleep.



So where does that leave me now? With one hell of a dilemma. You guys know how nuts I am for His Hairyness. He's generous with his time, his affection, and his resources. He's extremely hard-working, but very chilled out; never stressed or high-strung. He's a contientious lover, great friend, and a good man -- better than I deserve.

But I'm not in love with him. We never had that chemistry, that spark. I've been with him for 4 months, waiting to see if it grows. I had intended to wait longer, at least a couple more months. We've booked a holiday together in France this September, rented a cottage for a week in Bordeaux, just the 2 of us. Uber romantic. I've really been looking forward to it.

On the other hand, the Pirate and I clearly have amazing chemistry. Or do we? That ball was one hell of a Cinderella night. Was it him? Or was it all glitter and lights, music and magic, ambiance and alcohol? Am I willing to abandon a wonderful man who cares about me for a young swashbuckler after one night of tumbling in the dinghy?

Hairy has been more kind, more giving toward me than any man in my life. I'm not willing to cast that aside lightly. But then, it's a rare thing in this world to feel the kind of deep, instant connection I felt with the Pirate this weekend; a very rare thing indeed. I'm not willing to dismiss that lightly, either.

Why did I go home with the Pirate if I care about Hairy so much? Fair question, fair reader (as Babs would say). I've been asking myself that a lot the past couple days. There were a lot of reasons of varying degrees, but the over-riding one was this: I wanted to test drive another model.

I've been with His Hairyness about 4 months now, and he's the only man I've ever been with. You lot all know that. I've been wondering about the implications of that in the long run. I knew that if we carried on much longer, eventually I would start to wonder what else was out there. Fundamentally, dating is shopping. At least is is for me. (I know different people have different views on this, but for me, it's shopping.) You wouldn't automatically go and buy the first car you drove, would you? Of course not! You might come back to it in the end and decide you liked that first one best, but to know that it was the right choice you would have to take a few others out for a spin. And that's just a goddamn car, not a life long committment!

I know what I did was underhanded and deceitful. I should have been upfront, just said that i didn't want to have an exclusive relationship, that I wasn't ready for that kind of committment. (We've never explicitly agreed to exclusivity, but after so long I think it kind of becomes understood. Maybe I'm wrong about that.) But I didn't. Partly because I'm a coward, and partly because I didn't realize how strongly I felt about the matter until I was toes to toes with another man under a disco ball. My curiosity got the better of me.

My mom was surprisingly sympathetic. I didn't get the bollocking I expected. (Not that I told her, mind. She wheedled it out me, the telepathic bitch.) "Babe," she said, "I don't blame you one bit. I was young and hormonal once too, you know. And frankly, this is not the worst problem you could have. You waited a long time for this kind of attention, and now you've got two wonderful men who are both attracted to you. Face it, kid, a year ago you'd have dug your own eye out to be in this fix. So take your time, think carefully, follow your heart, and in the meantime, go ahead and enjoy it, just a teeny bit." (Reason number 4,113 why I love my mom.)

So there you go. That's my love life for the time being: caught between an angel and a calm, shallow sea.


Go comments? Oh, yes you do!

Test drive

It's like the difference between an older model Ford and a new, turbo-charged BMW. The Ford may not be flashy or look like much, but it's familiar and comfortable and it does get you there in the end.

But oh my god what a Beamer. One word: performance. High-power, super-charged machine. What a ride! I'm talking G-forces here, honeychild.



(And it case you havn't glommed on yet, this has nothing whatsoever to do with cars.)

Sexual imbalance

It all started when I read a recent post of LC's on Sex, Money, and HTML.

Well, no. Actually, it started when I started shagging the Hairy Man. I want to be a good lover. I want for Hairy to enjoy sex as much as I do. I want to rock his world.

I'll admit it: I'm suffering from a mild case of insecurity. I think that's understandable, though, given that I'm still rather a novice at all this.

But LC's post-coital chit-chat got me wondering: What is it that makes a woman dynamite in the sack? External stimuli aside (food, toys, role-playing, etc.), is there some elusive quality or combination of qualities that makes one woman a better lover than another? Enthusiasm? Creativity? Energy? Flexibility? Size of mouth? What?

I began a quest for how-to books for newbie shaggers. And I discovered something interesting:
The vast majority of sexual how-to books are all about how to pleasure a woman. I found things with titles like "The thinking man's guide to pleasureing a woman." Swell. Where's "The thinking woman's guide to pleasureing a man?" Guess what? That one don't exist.

Furthermore, the very few books out there on how to flip his lid are written by women. What the fuck? Granted, I'm sure these women are much more knowledgeable and have had a lot more first-hand experience in these things, and probably have some useful things to offer. But what I'd really like is a man's perspective. Is that so much to ask? I've got this hunch that most men know more about pleasureing men than most women do. Call me crazy.

So why is it that sex advice books are either written by or for women? Are women just more concerned in general with quality screwing? Or do we read and write books about it because we're inherently more insecure? Or are we more secure, and feel more free to share our views and experiences candidly in black and white? Or, dog forbid, is the old addage true? You know, the one that states "all a woman has to do to please a man is to show up."

So this is your chance, men. Starting now, I want you to fill my comments box with what makes a woman a good lover. On your mark, get set... GO!

One word:

Hamster porn.

(Ok, maybe that's two words, but it's still hilarious.





...and don't ask me how I found this website.)

He just rang to say "goodbye." God damnit, i know it's temporary, but still...

3 weeks without hot, Hairy sex!!!



How will I survive?

The Inevitable Update

You want photos.

Oh I know you do; don't tell me you don't.


Oh alright then. But first, you have to look at photos of the race on saturday.

That's me, cleverly disguised by the sunglasses. Just look at that reach! Do I have water or what? Aw yeah, 5 is where it's at. Fucking awesome.











Thanks for indulging me in my rowing obsession. Well done. For those of you presently living vicariously, here is your reward:

The man himself. (See what I mean about the Kenny G hair?)









Dinner last night was lovely. Had a great time. He roasted a chicken with carrots, sprouts, parsnips and (because he's English, he just can't help it poor lad)... potatoes. They were good. (For potatoes.)

Then we just lounged around, snuggled on the couch in front of the telly and watched nature programs on BBC4.

Later that night we,

I,

well,

let's just say I lost count and leave it at that, shall we?

and I still have no idea what became of my knickers.

the obligatory details

They say a lady doesn't kiss and tell.

Well they ain't no ladies at this here blog.

There appear to be some misconceptions floating about the interwub regarding the other party involved in the romantic encounter that took place two nights hence. I don't have any stuffed-shirt moral objections to a one-night stand or a random shag; they're just not for me. No, Crazy Hairy and I have been seeing each other casually for a few weeks. I have mentioned him before but, as i just realized this morning, not by (nick)name. He's the fittie with the Kenny G hair I met through Ye Olde Dating Service a few weeks back. I really didn't think he was terribly keen on me, and when he didn't get in touch after our first date my suspicions were confirmed. Of course, i didn't realize at the time that my mobile phone was missing, and in fact he called me three times before he gave up, natually assuming that I wasn't interested. A week later I found my phone and saw the missed calls, and we went for dinner.

It's funny, I don't have any romantic feelings toward him, i'm not twitterpated or dizzy or any of those those things. I don't think there's any real chemistry between us, and I'm certainly not in love with him. But I do like him. He's pleasant, easy-going, and good for a giggle. He's got a great outlook on life (pretty much laughs at absolutely everything, every human foible, failing, and fuckup), and is very courteous and respectful.

In short, he's fun.

And I trust him. I wouldn't have invited him over to mine for dinner on Wed evening othewise. I didn't expect him to stay for dessert, but i definately didn't object.

We lounged around on my bed/sofa, listening to simon and Garfunkel, working our way through a second bottle of vin rouge. And what followed is, as they say, herstory.

I can honestly say that he was aflame with passion. I set him on fire. Literally. His hair got caught in the scented candle* i had burning by the bed. Whoops. My bad.

I was delighted to discover that he's a total snuggle slut. He didn't let go of me the entire night, and it was fantasticamazingmindblowing to wake up in the morning and feel the tickle of his chest hair against my back, his breath on my shoulder, and his rock-hard thighs entangled in mine.

Am i divulging too many X-rated details here? Sorry.


That's a lie. I'm not sorry at all. This is my page. If you don't like it you can fuck off.

So Spinny, here's a 'losing it' story to add to your collection:
Grad school, my place, older man; minor pain, major fun, and i set his hair on fire. Was listening to "Cecelia."

He texted me twice the following day to say what a good time he had. (i'm taking that as a sign that i wasn't total rubbish.) Will definately keep in touch with him (pun intended).





*Not for romantic or seduction purposes was this candle lit. It had the much more untilitarian function of covering the smell of my manky rowing kit, which hangs around my room on every available surface, and perpetually stinks of sweat, mildew, and the river Avon.

Comfort

What's missing from this sundae?


You're damn right it is.


"You have lovely smooth skin," he mumbled, chewing contentedly on my stomach.


Christ I needed that.