On Boundaries and Self-Care (Blog #152)

1 Comment August 29, 2017 CoCo

Today I went to therapy, and the lights were turned down low–I guess because the sun was coming in the windows or whatever. Honestly, it felt like womb, maybe a good place to take a nap. But I guess somebody could have taken it as scary or even romantic, since my therapist said, “Does it creep you out that the lights are off?”

“Please. I don’t give a shit.” (This is how we talk to each other.)

Today we talked about boundaries (we always talk about boundaries), and we both agreed that whereas necessary, setting them can be tiring. In my case, I went so long without having any (I thought I had them, but I didn’t), that figuring out what I’ll accept and what I won’t accept has felt like a full-time job the last few years. Naturally, a number of friendships and relationships have shifted since I got some standards. Maybe that’s really the tiring part, watching people you care about walk away when the rules change. Granted, it’s empowering to say, “No, I won’t lower my price,” “No, it’s not okay to manipulate me,” or, “No, you can’t touch my ass,” but as Caroline Myss points out, few people are willing to celebrate your personal empowerment. I mean, when was the last time someone looked at you and said, “Yay–you don’t need me”?

Of course, I think a good therapist is anything but codependent and will celebrate your victories. Mine says her goal is to work herself out of a job. Personally, I guess I like that idea, although I don’t see it materializing as long as I’m living with my parents and spending part of every afternoon watching Days of Our Lives.

About mid-session, I told my therapist that this last week has been pretty emotional, probably because I’ve been go-go-going, Mom’s cancer has taken an emotional toll, and my life has been in such a state of flux for a while now. (She said flux was “good,” but I’m still chewing on that idea.) Then I said that rather than taking my stress as an opportunity to slow down and practice self-care (take a nap, ask for a hug), I tell myself I should be doing better or should be “further along.” In short, I self-flagellate.

“Yeah, you’re REAL good at that,” she said.

“Why, thank you.”

“That wasn’t a compliment.”

Before tonight, I’d planned to go out-of-town tomorrow to hear an author speak. I’d planned to go, spend the night, and take my time coming back on Thursday. Then I realized that wouldn’t work because I have an appointment Thursday morning. Oh well, I thought, I can still go and come back in one night, stay up to write the blog, and still make the appointment. (If you’re wondering who lit the other end of this candle, it was obviously me.) Well, today I decided I could practice self-care by NOT going, by basically setting a boundary for–myself.

Stop, Marcus. Just stop.

Personally, I don’t consider this a big revelation. It’s not the first time I’ve put myself on a diet, stopped smoking, or decided to stay home to rest. But I do think it’s interesting that I’m able to mostly navigate boundaries with others and my physical world, but sometimes less so with my internal. Maybe our thoughts and emotions are tougher to work with, but I’m thinking it’s time to set some limits for myself, since the truth is that I wouldn’t let anyone else tell me I’m not good enough, or listen to them go on and on (and on) about how it’s not okay to feel overwhelmed for more than fifteen minutes at a time or how no one will love me unless I stop eating white bread for breakfast, lunch, and dinner.

And sometimes for a snack.

When I put my self-talk on paper, it sounds pretty ridiculous. But I guess our thoughts are sort of like broken records that just keep playing over and over (and over) again until you finally say, “Wait a damn minute, I don’t like this music,” and put on something different. Of course, I don’t expect things to change overnight, and it’s not like I haven’t been working on this for a while–I have. It’s better up there than it used to be. But my therapist says boundaries are always being reevaluated as new information comes along, so it’s probably just time for a personal check-in. Ultimately, I believe good boundaries come from a strong sense of self-worth, so if I wouldn’t let anyone else treat or talk to me poorly, why would I let myself get away with the same bad behavior?

Why would anyone?

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

Rest gives us time to dream. One day, for certain, you’ll wake up. And you’ll be grateful for the time you rested, and you’ll be just as grateful that you’re different, far from the person who fell asleep.

Scooby Doo and the Two-Headed Monster (Blog #147)

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

Our world is magical, a mysterious place where everything somehow works together, where nothing and no one is without influence, where all things great and small make a difference.

The Best of Things (Blog #146)

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

You can't build a house, much less a life, from the outside-in. Rather, if you want something that's going to last, you have to start on the inside and work your way out, no matter how long it takes and how difficult it is.

My Authentic Response to Criticism (Blog #145)

2 Comments August 22, 2017 CoCo

Tonight’s blog may be one of the most difficult I’ve ever written. I’ll explain. I have a personal rule for the blog that I won’t use it as a means to call someone out specifically, meaning I don’t consider this the place to say, “Jack, you’re a real asshole,” or, “Suzy, those yoga pants make you look like whore.” Aside from those being unkind statements, this is a blog about (my) authenticity, vulnerability, and mental and spiritual health, and I don’t consider it the venue to pick a fight. All that being said, tonight’s blog is going to approach that line because–and only because–I’ve promised that I will also and always write about what’s on my heart. So far, I have. In over one hundred and forty posts, I haven’t once tried to fake my emotions or stray from what I knew needed to be said–and I’m not going to start tonight.

So, to borrow a phrase I’ve heard once or twice from my therapist, we’re about to have a confrontation.

The first thing I saw this morning was that someone had posted a comment on yesterday’s blog that was pending approval. Well, I’m not sure that my people pleaser will ever not be the first one to have a voice, so I immediately thought, Oh God, I hope someone’s not mad. I guess I could post the entire comment, but the essence was: 1) I hate the bandana you wear on your head, 2) Your hair is too beautiful to cover it up, 3) Please stop it, and 4) I love you and am just being honest.

As I’ve said a number of times, my therapist says that online communication is rife with misunderstandings, so I’d like to be clear–the tone of the comment, in my opinion, was mostly lighthearted, complimentary (they called me handsome), and well-intended. They even said, “I have no right to encroach on what you determine makes you happy in life.” With this much, I agree.

My first thought after reading the comment this morning was, That’s hilarious. Thank God it wasn’t something serious. Actually, I started to say as much. But I hadn’t woken up yet, and that response didn’t feel quite right, even though it did feel like “a nice thing to say.” My therapist says that nice is a strategy, in light of which I would have to admit–the only reason I would dismiss such a criticism would be to not rock the boat and to make sure someone likes me (and my hair and anything I put on it). Of course, if you’ve ever tried to manage what someone else thinks of you, you know–it’s exhausting.

I wish I could tell you that the comment rolled over me like water off a duck’s back, but I can’t. It’s not that I’ve had a bad day, but it’s sort of felt like a piece of food that slowly molds and rots in your refrigerator. It’s something you can’t put your finger on at first. But then one day you open the door and know exactly what stinks.

I remember a couple years ago when I went out-of-town–maybe New York City or New Mexico–and I wore a cowboy hat that I named Jose (after the guy who made it). I fucking loved it, and told myself I’d wear it more often when I got home. But damn it, there’s something oppressive about Fort Smith, something that says, “Conform,” so I didn’t. When I talked about it in therapy, my therapist said, “Give it a whirl–be yourself.” Recently when I spoke to her about an incident similar to today’s that I can’t remember, she told me that sometimes when well-meaning people criticize her fashion choices, she says, “I do whatever the fuck I want.”

Amen.

I would like to acknowledge that everyone–everyone–has a right to their opinion. Also, I’ve yet to censor anyone’s comments on this blog, my YouTube channel, or Facebook, since I don’t consider it my job to tell other people what to think, say, or, for that matter, what to wear. So everyone is welcome to say what they want, but let me be perfectly clear–just because you have a thought about my life, doesn’t mean that it’s beneficial or that I want to hear it. I mean, when was the last time someone came up to you and said, “Alice, that jean skirt makes your butt look unattractive,” and you said, “Why thank you, Edna, you’re a saint. What else can I change about me?” So in short, I don’t consider my hair (or any other part of my life) a democracy.

According to my dad tonight, that’s why I’m not married.

My mom (who’s currently bald from chemotherapy) said, “I don’t care what you do with your hair. I’m just glad you have some.”

It may be too late, but I really don’t want this blog to be about one specific comment, since it’s not the first time I’ve been told, “The blonde hair was a mistake,” “You won’t be able to get a job if your hair is blue,” or “Those pants make you look gay,” to which if given the chance to do it all over again I’d respectively say, “Fuck off,” “How the hell do you know that, Dad?” and “Good–I am gay.” Also, I know that my natural tendency is to be defensive, to be–in the words of my therapist–dukes up. This tendency, I’m sure, comes from the fact that I essentially raised myself, so criticism of any sort always feels like someone saying that I didn’t do a good job (even though I did a fucking great job, thank you very much) or that I failed in some way.

Additionally, I’d like to acknowledge that although I don’t do it online, I often have critical thoughts about others and will frequently voice these opinions to my friends. Jesus, that dress is ugly. Those shoes make her look like a construction worker. Caroline Myss says that these sorts of thoughts and comments stem from the idea that someone else’s life only exists in order to make me happy. Like, “I’d feel better if you’d stop dressing like a lumberjack, Janice.” Obviously–and I can only speak for myself on this one–that’s an arrogant and flawed way to address one of God’s fellow creations. So to anyone to whom I’ve minimized in this way, I apologize and am working on it.

Lastly, I’d like to say something about my experience with honesty. I know I make a big deal about it here, and perhaps it deserves a little more attention. From what I understand, honesty means being true to yourself, whatever your experience. My therapist says that if you’re angry or hurt or whatever, you don’t bite your tongue because it doesn’t feel good to bite your tongue. By not being honest, you damage yourself in some way. She also quotes a spiritual guru and says, “Be kind whenever possible. It’s always possible.” To me this means that just because it’s honest to say, “Those pleated pants went out of style twenty years ago, and I wouldn’t be caught dead in that Ban-Lon shirt,” doesn’t mean it’s necessary.

Personally, I hate the fact that I may get up tomorrow and hesitate to put a bandana on my head, even though I know it keeps my beautiful hair out of my face when I drive down the interstate with my windows down, something that never ceases to make me feel totally free. Ultimately, I think we all are worthy of that unbridled feeling of freedom, that feeling that says, “I love me, I love everything about me, and I don’t give a shit if anyone else likes it or not.”

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

You can be more discriminating.

Trying to Stay in First Person (Blog #142)

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

If another's perspective, another's story about you is kinder than the one you're telling yourself, surely that's a story worth listening to.

Dealing with My Bullshit Thoughts (Blog #139)

1 Comment August 16, 2017 CoCo

The first day I went to therapy, I told my therapist about everything I could think of that might make a difference–the terrible relationship I was in, our house burning down when I was five, Mom being sick, Dad going to prison–every trauma I was aware of. And then I had to pee. Seriously. I remember standing in the bathroom thinking, Okay, there, I said it. I wonder what she’s going to say. Well, she was super professional, didn’t call me fucked up or anything. Rather, she said, “It sounds like you and your boyfriend have zero boundaries and that you have some family of origin issues [Who doesn’t?].” And that was that, end of session one.

Fast forward three years and about a hundred sessions later, and my therapist has never once said, “Tell me about your father,” or, “Let’s talk about that kid that used to beat you up.” She said once that she believes when the subconscious is ready to deal with something (to heal), the topic will come up on its own. So far, she’s been right. At one point or another, we’ve returned to all those initial traumas, even some other ones. We’ve talked about everything.

Well, almost everything.

Today we talked about–money. There, I said it. The topic came up because I mentioned the dream board I’m working on, and it would appear that dreams cost money (if you want them to come true). As the conversation went on, I shared an exercise I did recently where I listed my knee-jerk thoughts about money. Two things–it wasn’t pretty–and my therapist said knee-jerk thoughts (like my mother-in-law is _________) tell us how we really feel about something. To summarize, most of my thoughts about money are negative.

There’s not enough money. Money causes arguments. Money isn’t spiritual.

After I read the list, my therapist said, “That was intense.” I said, “That was intense to say out loud.” Honestly, it felt like throwing up in the backseat of your friend’s new car, like, I feel better, but now what do we do? Well, once again, my therapist didn’t freak out or say that I had an insurmountable problem. Instead, she started by reminding me where my beliefs came from. We talked about my childhood and all the bullshit that went on, the cars that were repossessed when Dad went to prison, the box from the Baptist church full of charity food that sat in a corner and silently proclaimed, “We can’t afford to eat.”

“It’s completely understandable that you’d have issues with scarcity and abundance. You had some bad programming,” she said.

Then she added, “And ninety percent of that list is BULLSHIT,” at which point she took out a pink highlighter and marked the two thoughts about money that I’m apparently allowed to keep because they’re actually true–1) money is freedom (of choice) and 2) money is fun. But the thought that I’d have more money if I were smarter? That one has to go. She said, “Do you know anyone with a lot of money that’s NOT as smart as you are?”

“Well yeah.”

“Okay then.”

The rest of today, I pretty much felt like shit, which I’m assuming is because we poked the bear, stirred up a bunch of junk that’s been sitting around for a while. On top of that, my initial response whenever I realize there’s serious work to do is to get overwhelmed. Oh my god, how am I going to stop believing all these things I’ve been believing for my entire life? Well, after I taught a dance lesson this evening, I finally had an idea.

Village Inn has free pie on Wednesdays. (As my friend Kara says, “It’s hard not to eat your feelings. They taste so good.”)

Really, I spent a good portion of the evening trying to figure out how I could blog about something else tonight. I swear, this vulnerability and honesty shit is for the birds. I mean, I don’t LOVE talking on the internet about my general fears and insecurities, and I certainly don’t LOVE talking on the internet about my specific fears and insecurities (money, money, my education, my body, my talent, and money–and also money). Part of me would just prefer not to do it. There may be some pride involved. But when I checked out at Village Inn tonight, the lady at the register started talking to me about an employee she’d just got off the phone with. She said, “She hasn’t worked in a month. She’s been on vacation in Spain.”

I thought, Now why do I give a shit?

But I said, “Oh that’s nice.”

Then the manager jumped in and said, “I’d love to go to Spain,” so I said, “Do it!” But then she said, “I don’t have enough money, I can’t afford it,” which is honestly my first thought lately whenever someone suggests seeing a play, going to dinner, or riding the train at Creekmore Park for a quarter. Then I figured if the Village Inn lady and I have this issue around scarcity, that’s at least two of us, and maybe there are others. So–in an effort to be real–I’m talking about it.

Sometimes when I think about the road that lies ahead and turning my scarcity truck into an abundance mobile, it feels impossible. But this evening I’ve reminded myself that I’ve tackled a lot of big issues over the last several years. I’ve come a long way with a lot of excellent help. So I have to trust that this too is an issue that’s come up at the right time, that it’s only rocking my emotional boat now because it’s time for it to heal.

Let’s do this shit.

As always, I’ll let you know how it goes.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

When the universe speaks—listen.

Ripped from a Page (Blog #138)

2 Comments August 15, 2017 CoCo

This afternoon I went to physical therapy, something I’ve been doing on an almost weekly basis since someone slammed into the back of my car a month and a half ago and turned me into a real-life bobblehead doll. Honestly, physical therapy itself been going great. A couple of weeks ago I got moved from twice a week to once a week, and today I got moved to “almost done,” which means I only need to go back if I feel like it during the next month. That being said, when I walked in today, the therapist said that my posture was “almost perfect,” that my left shoulder was “a bit” high and my head was turned “slightly” to the right.

Well, shit.

Of course, part of me is thrilled with the progress (or whatever), but a bigger part of me is “a bit” stressed out and “slightly” terrified that I’m not–well–perfect. Maybe that’s my perfectionist talking. It’s difficult to say.

Yesterday I started making a dream board, also known as a vision board. It’s one of my 101 creativity assignments, and it involves collecting pictures and phrases from magazines that represent dreams I’d like to come true. (If anyone has a teeny bopper magazine filled with Zac Efron photos, please drop it in the mail to my address.) So this afternoon I went to the library, and while upstairs streaming an episode of Will (the new TV series about young–and hot, let’s not forget hot–William Shakespeare), I searched for dream board additions in some of the free magazines I found downstairs.

When I was in junior high, I worked my ass off on an insect collection–you know the kind where you stick a pin through a dragonfly (that you caught with the lid of your parent’s barbecue grill) and another pin through a tiny piece of paper that says “dragonfly” along with the scientific name. Well, it really was great, since I’ve always been a rule follower and extremely anal retentive. HOWEVER, I got marked off four points (for a total of 96 percent) because the edges of my paper weren’t completely straight, since I’d creased the paper on the side of a table and torn it rather than using scissors. At the time, I was devastated. Looking back, I wish I’d known enough to look my teacher right in the eye and say, “Bitch please.”

Obviously, the event stuck with me. I mean, that was over twenty years ago, and I still can’t help but wonder if my life would have turned out differently if I’d gotten those four extra points. Now that I think about it, I’ve wasted a lot of time on perfectionism, which my therapist says is just another name for fear (fear of not good enough, fear of rejection). This is something I’ve been working on–letting go of being perfect–so when the instructions for the dream board said to tear (literally tear) out whatever I wanted to add to my board, it honestly felt great to rip, rip, rip the magazine pages apart and see all those jagged edges. Fuck you, 100 percent.

After gawking at young–and hot, let’s not forget hot–William Shakespeare and working on the dream board, I ran into one of my former students with whom I always have fabulous conversations. When I talked about the blog (as I tend to do), my friend referred to my daily self-reflection as “encountering yourself,” which I think is the perfect (there’s that word again) phrase and something everyone should make an effort to do before they die.

Encounter yourself.

Before I left the library I signed up for the online course I mentioned yesterday about healing your emotional wounds. I’ll let you know how it goes, but one of the ideas presented in the lesson today was that the two natural responses to having a wound are shielding (for protection) and soothing (for healing). The guy teaching the course, Artie Wu, says that shields can show up as anger, people pleasing, and–get this–perfectionism. Soothing can show up as drugs and alcohol, food, or working or using media too much. (I wonder if binge watching hot Shakespeare counts.) None of these responses are bad in and of themselves, but the question to ask is whether the behavior hurts more than it helps. In my case, if I’m going to get real about it, the idea is that perfectionism is a way to avoid criticism (you’re not good enough) and engender praise (you’re the best boy ever). And whereas there’s nothing wrong with that strategy, it does come with a lot of baggage, like the inability to relax with crooked pictures on the wall or walk out the fucking door without every hair on my head just so.

This evening I went to hear my friend Donny play at Core Brewing Company in Fort Smith. He and some of his friends have a band called The Wren Boys, and they’re currently playing every Tuesday night. (Come join the fun.) Here’s a video from their set tonight.

While the band played, Donny’s wife, Vicki, and I discussed the idea of being playful, and as I’ve thought more about it, being playful–curious–seems to be the opposite of perfectionism. Just watching Donny and his friends, it’s the most laid back thing–off the cuff, unrehearsed–fun. And isn’t that the point–to life? I mean, where does it say that all your edges have to be straight (or even that you do)? Maybe this means that one of my shoulders will always be “a bit” higher than the other, my gaze may always be “slightly” off, but clearly I’m the only one taking points away from myself for having “almost perfect” posture. But that’s changing. Honestly, the more I encounter myself, the more I realize that all my edges are torn–almost as if something bigger than myself had ripped me from a page and dreamed that I’d come true.

[Seriously, if you have any old magazines (with or without Zac Efron) you’d like to get rid of, I’d love to have them.]

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

"Things that shine do better when they're scattered about."

Not Everyone’s Cup of Tea (Blog #133)

1 Comment August 10, 2017 CoCo

Sometimes, at 330 in the morning while the rest of the western hemisphere is sleeping, I feel like sleeping too. More accurately, I feel like quitting. I mean, I love writing, but every damn day is a lot. Surely I could be happy as an underachiever, or hell–just an achiever. Anything but the balls-to-the-wall overachiever that I am. Currently I’m in Springfield, Missouri, staying with some friends, and there’s a remote control and Netflix within spitting distance of this futon, and don’t think I haven’t thought about closing this laptop and going for it.

But here I am–once again–writing. UGH.

This morning, before I’d even been awake for half an hour, I got an email that a piece of writing I submitted for a statewide contest had been rejected. (“Not accepted” was the actual phrase they used.) Well, I don’t mind saying that reading that email sucked. It still sucks. Granted, I get that it’s only one contest and blah, blah, blah, but “not acceptance” always blows in the worst way. I mean–as long as I’m being honest, since that’s what I do here (ICK)–I kind of had my heart set on that contest. A friend of mine is a past-winner, and they said I was a shoe-in. I’d already mentally spent the prize money, thought about how I would thank my parents in my acceptance speech.

I heard recently that a good percentage of our mental activity and time is spent on daydreaming–thinking Well, if this happens I’ll do this. If that happens I’ll do that. If he happens I’ll do him. So I guess all the fantasizing is very “normal,” but it still sucks.

Damn daydreams.

Just after the email came through, I had an appointment with my massage therapist, Gina, and we started talking about which of my leg muscles felt tight. I said my quads felt tighter than my hamstrings, and Gina said, “Hum, let me think.” Then she had a “lightbulb moment,” started working on my quads, and explained that they were pulling the front of my hips down. (Think of a bowl with muscles attached to the front and back. If the front is pulled down, the back will tilt up.) Gina said, “The quads are strong enough to cause your hips to tilt. They have the power to do that.”

Within minutes, I felt my quads release. Gina said, “We may have hit pay dirt.” Later when I got off the table, I could tell my hips were more level, less tilted. My butt didn’t stick out as far. (Sorry, ladies.) My hips weren’t rocked back like usual. Wow, I thought, My body is actually changing. Part of me thought this would never happen, but–it’s happening.

Later I tried to call my therapist and left a message. Then–because it’s part of my creativity homework to spend time in a sacred space–I went to sit in a church. Just walked in and sat down. No one else was there–just me and God. I felt like I was in a movie–that is until the janitor started moving around and making noise. Still, I was this big ball of emotions–disappointed about the contest, excited about my hips, wondering what to do next, whether or not I should throw in the towel, settle. Then I noticed a candle burning near the altar, and I thought about how it continued to burn–day in, day out–no matter whether or not anyone was there to see it. Just a candle burning with no need for praise or recognition.

Can I be like that candle?

As I left the church, I noticed I’d missed a call from my therapist, so I called her back and caught her in between clients. I said, “I get that dreams don’t always come true the way you think they’re going to, even if they do come true. And I’m just trying to not go into a downward spiral over this contest.”

“Contests are so subjective,” she said. “You don’t know if it was a tie and someone said, ‘Just pick one.’ Or maybe the judge had a fight with their spouse that day. Plus you have to remember–people are fucking stupid.”

So then I started laughing.

“You know, there are people who meet me for an intake and say it’s not going to work for them,” she said. “I’m not everyone’s cup of tea. I don’t want to be everyone’s cup of tea. I work REALLY HARD TO NOT BE everyone’s cup of tea.”

Yeah, I like that. I don’t want to be everyone’s cup of tea either.

A couple of weeks ago my friend Vicki introduced to Ana Maria, one of the artists who’s participated in The Unexpected (artist/mural festival in Fort Smith) for the last three years. She currently has a pop-up gallery in downtown to showcase her work, so today she met me for a private viewing. How cool is that? How cool is that octopus mural at the top of the blog?

Way cool.

Here’s a painting Ana Maria did of two foxes. It’s called Grief.

Next to Grief hung a painting she did of an octopus and some flowers. It’s called Jubilo, which is Spanish for joy.

I said, “That’s interesting–grief and joy–right beside each other.”

This evening I drove to Springfield to attend a dance and help my friends Anne and Andy at their wedding venue because one of their regular staff members (my friend Matt) is out of town. During the drive I kept thinking about how many muscles connect to the hips, how hard it is to keep them balanced. If one set of muscles starts pulling, the others have to overwork to compensate. I kept thinking how Gina referred to the quads’ ability to cause imbalance.

They have the power to do that.

At the dance tonight, there were several times that I got completely lost in the moment, having fun, laughing. My friend Andy led me in both two-step and Lindy Hop, and it was a thrill-a-minute because I didn’t have to be in charge for once. (Ironic, I know, that I’ve been upset because things didn’t work out my way.) He even dipped me back. Yippee! Then a couple times I thought, Oh yeah, I lost that contest. I guess I’m still sad about it. But I’m having fun now. And my hips are getting better.

I suppose Ana Maria had it right–putting grief and joy beside each other. Perhaps they’re the same thing–expectations disappointed, expectations fulfilled. This is the way life goes. But when I think about someone I don’t even know judging my writing–one of probably hundreds of entries–I know that person, that situation can disappoint me, but neither has the ability to affect my balance for very long. No, I’ve decided. They don’t have the power to do that. I’ve worked too hard to not be everyone’s cup of tea. What’s more, my joy comes from within, and–at least for now–sitting at this laptop every night is what I’m called to do, what my soul demands.

So I guess I’ll write another day.