Category: Uncategorized

Thought Overload

Am I the only one whose mind wanders during yoga? Please tell me I’m not the only person incapable of thinking solely of their rounded and backward breathing (I didn’t even know there were other types of breathing. Am I the only one who simply breathes in and out??) I just worry I’m crazy, or I will never learn the art of not thinking, constantly, obsessively. 
This morning, I got up early and attended Yin Yoga. Let me repeat that: I got up early. To do fitness. I really felt a tiara, or a certificate of achievement was deserved, but no one seemed impressed my happy ass was there bright and early, with my unwashed hair.
I had never heard of Yin Yoga, but that’s really not surprising, as I know really nothing about any kind of yoga. All I cared to ask the instructor was, “Will this likely kill a newbie?” She laughed and said, “Get a blanket, two blocks, and a bolster. You will be fine. Oh, and we will be positioned in a circle”. 
Ugh. 
I am not fond of facing others during fitness, because it means they will look at me. They will have front row seats to my ineptness. Why a circle? I wanted to ask, “Can I just sit outside the classroom? It’ll be fine. I’ll hear your instructions and I’ll peek in a few times”. I knew it wouldn’t go over well, so I just placed my mat as far away as possible, while still being somewhat a part of the circle of shame. 
Let me make it clear that I am 100% open to having a yoga mind. I want to be able to focus on my third eye (especially when my third eye isn’t being referred to as an especially nasty zit, which is what I thought a third eye was). I want to be able to connect to my breath, but it’s HARD. 
My brain does not shut off. Ever. I’m usually thinking/worrying/planning several different things at the same time. I have incredibly vivid dreams. I have been known to “sleep plan” lessons. Obviously, I’m an over-thinker. The mental exercise of yoga is far harder than the physical element. I’m mentally weak. I’m struggling, friends. For your reading pleasure, I would like to share actual thoughts I had during yoga today. I’m weird. Beware. 
I should have blown my nose before class.
OMG. I legit almost blew a booger out of my nostril. Mouth breathing it is. 
She wants me to put my left leg behind my ass and then lay down? Is she seeing my body?
I wonder if the guy with the speedo on could breathe any louder. He’s brag breathing. 
Why is it that the men are always almost naked and the women are practically wearing their entire closet. Why is that? 
Thank GOD I’m the fattest one in here. Said no one ever.
Wow. I had no idea my heel would ever meet my belly button. I should introduce them to each other. Katie, you’re fucking mental. 
When was the last time they washed the cover to this bolster? What if someone had their poorly-wiped ass on it right before this class? I’m laying my face on this thing. I’ll get pink eye! I might get E. coli! I might die! 
Further, do they mop this floor? What if they don’t? What if? Should I ask? 
Am I the only one who sneaks looks at the other people when our eyes are supposed to be closed? 
That girl has a hole in the crotch of her pants. How embarrassing. Wait, so do I!! OMG, who saw??
EVERYONE. Because we’re in a CIRCLE.
Could I get away with a small toot? Probably not.
Obviously I need help. HELP. 



Blanket Yoga

Guys, I just discovered Restorative Yoga, and it is the best thing ever. EVER.
A few days ago, my aunt and I were discussing my new yoga journey. I was trying to express to her how hot and challenging my yoga sessions have been. How do you, in speaking words, explain a hot that is suffocating? How do you adequately explain to someone that during your yoga-ing, you wish you were never born? How do you do this, and at the same time express that you love it in a very masochistic way? I think that she is still worried for my safety and well-being. I guess I did not explain myself properly.
So, this was how she invited me to be a part of her yoga experience. Let me just quote her:
“It is all very calming. When I leave, I feel like I just had a massage. You lay down the whole time and they cover you with blankets…”
Blankets.
All I heard was “blankets”.
I asked her, “Do you mean to tell me, when you do yoga you get to lay down the whole time? You get blankets?”
SHUT.THE.FRONT.DOOR.
I truly thought she had to be lying. Who has ever heard of “Blanket Yoga”? I was intrigued, and thus, I attended with her yesterday.
I would like to make it clear, and to absolve my aunt of all assumptions made about her character, by saying, “BLANKETS”.
No shit, during restorative yoga, you practice your breath and lay down. The whole time. It was better than any exercise or health class I have ever taken. I did not expel one drip of sweat. I did not have to spray down my mat with a hose after, and I did not have to wash my hair. It was beautiful.
At one point, we made ourselves a makeshift lay-down chair with blankets, and enjoyed just relaxing for a good 20 minutes. During, the instructor came around and gently laid eye pillows, scented with lavender on our closed eyelids, and then she covered us with blankets. She tucked me in.
I cannot fully express my love of this yoga session thoroughly. I do not have the literary skill.
All I can say is that I will be attending “Blanket Yoga” from here on out, for all eternity.
Thank you, Auntie Dana, GOD BLESS YOU.
 

Toot Toot 

Ladies, why do we feel the need to not graciously accept compliments? Why do we feel guilty for admitting when we look fierce? Why do we feel we are bragging when asked to list our achievements on resumes and college applications? What is this overly-humble bullshit about? Ya’ll know what I’m talking about. If you aren’t guilty of it lately, you have been at one point or another. We all have. We have all said, “Oh, this old thing?”, when given a compliment. Don’t lie. 
Recently I was at a school district training. The trainer was the kookiest woman I have ever met. She was spunky, loud, and pretty much the most hilarious woman I’ve ever met coming out of our district (that’s really saying something, because usually education sucks the life out of you). At one point she started going off on a tangent. She asked us women to make it out goal to never poo-poo a compliment again. The class was on poverty, but someone how she got the topic of self-deprecation in. Pretty amusing. Well, she really got me thinking. She also got me paying more attention to how I respond to compliments. 
I guess I should admit that the way I respond, depends on the person. If my boyfriend pays me a compliment, I flutter my lashes, smile pretty, and coyly say, “Oh yeah? You think I’m pretty? What else?” Pretty much this is why my boyfriend is annoyed with me 99% of the time. Compliments from men turn me into the worst version of myself ever. I’m the annoying insecure, attention-seeking psycho all men attempt to avoid. I hate that me. 
With literally everyone else, I vehemently deny my pants are nice, and “No, I didn’t do anything new with my hair”- stop looking at me.
I’ve noticed that the compliments I’ve had the hardest time accepting come from other women. Far too often, we are pitted against one another in a competition of wits, and of who has the best, basically, everything. Yet, when it comes down to admitting we have “won” a tiny battle and we’ve been noticed, we deny ever making any effort made on ourselves. 
Ladies, as I’m a fellow lady (well, sometimes), I can honestly admit we find it annoying when our fellow woman plays dumb when being paid a compliment. We know it comes from a deep sense of insecurity and the inability to celebrate ourselves, but this bullshit needs to stop! We are all smart, beautiful, and accomplished in some way (unless you’re not, and in that case-get your act together). If a friend, or even a complete stranger tells you they like your lip color, don’t suck your lips into your mouth like a self-conscious vacuum, and passionately regret trying a different color, SMILE and know your teeth look über white. Know you’re hot and others see it too. 
The inspiration came to write on this topic when I was emailing a woman from the graduate admissions department at Sierra Nevada College. I was inquiring about the letter of recommendation that was required. Her email response let me know that the letter wouldn’t be required if I have an undergraduate GPA of 3.0 or higher. I felt elated, and was happily typing, “That won’t be a problem, I graduated with honors,” Then, as I hastily tapped, ‘delete, delete, delete…’, I said aloud, “NO, NO, NO! Imma toot my own horn a little bit, dammit”. 
“Toot toot.” 

58 Saturdays

I mentioned in my last post that I have 58 Saturdays ahead of me (well, 56 now). This is completely a blessing and a curse. It’s a blessing because if I want to binge-watch Friends for 6 solid hours, there is not one thing stopping me. It’s a curse, because if I watch Netflix all day, I’m going to want to binge, not only on old sitcoms, but on Cheetos, Tillamook sharp cheddar (I can totally just eat right off the brick, no shame), an entire pan of Nutella brownies, and some watermelon (gotta get my fruit in). I am, in no way, embellishing. 
With no routine, all semblance of order and control goes out the window. A quesadilla at 2:00 AM sounds like a fine idea when you don’t have to get up for work the next day. Also, if I’m on the couch, it’s Mindless Eating Time, and that’s all there is to it. There is a lot of couch sitting on school breaks. I’ve ocassionally wondered if I were to purchase an immensely uncomfortable seating implement, if it would help. Like, two wooden rocking chairs, with no cushions, or just a body ball, one for me and one for my boyfriend. We would have to balance ourselves and our dinner every night. There would be zero lounging, and my posture would greatly improve. It’s an idea.
So, because I know that I have so much working against me, I’ve decided to go back to my tried and true Weight Watchers eating plan. I’ve decided that it’s the best kind of food plan for me. My problem is portion control. If you say, “On Paleo, you can eat all the veggies you want”, I will consider it a challenge, and you will find me polishing off a horse-sized bag of carrots. 
With WW, you have a certain allotment of points you can eat in a day. If you’re happy with iceberg lettuce for dinner, sure, have that S’mores Frappuccino, just as long as you stay within your points allowance. I’ve had those days before, and it didn’t take long to find that I better balance my meals better than that. With WW, you have to portion, weigh, and consider everything you put into your mouth. It’s a lot of work, but the control I feel counting my points makes me feel empowered. 
I’ve tried Atkins, Paleo, no-sugar, and I’ve tried Slim Fast (that lasted exactly one day) and yet, I keep going back to WW. The extreme diets where you are disallowed a single carb is completely unrealistic to me. There are going to be those days when you need a cookie. A REAL cookie, and shouldn’t that be OK? Why I give up on those diets is because they are too rigid and strict. I don’t respond well to the words, “can’t” and “no”.
Control is really what it’s all about. Because I have none of that, like at all, I thrive on counting my points and operating with some sense of control over what and how much I eat. I plan out my day, and count the points I can eat, and it’s usually so that I can “afford” my Skinny Cow salted pretzel ice cream bar after dinner. It’s not a crime, because I ate salad and chicken breast, and passed on the sugar-laden coffee drink at Starbucks. So, there! 
It’s all about finding a balance (aren’t I annoying, with my diet-know-it-all-ness?). I firmly believe that if you want to change your eating, and find a food plan option that you can stick to, it’s one in which you are allowed to cheat once in awhile. We are only human, and dammit if cake is not the best thing ever! I can’t live without cake, and the blessed Weight Watchers lets me have it (you get a 1 inch square for 12 points, but hey!) 
I am not just assuming that WW will work for me, as I’ve lost 40 pounds before on the program, and it was the easiest 40 pounds to lose, ever! I gained it all back when I became a teacher. The stress either drives you to drink or eat. Eating it was. 
  

The thinnest I will ever look on film, all thanks to Weight Watchers! 

Bad Cupcakes! 

Yesterday was the last day of school (Schools…out…for…SUMMER). I have exactly 58 Saturday’s ahead of me (more about that blessed dilemma later). I started my summer vacation off in a very positive, good-Samaritan way. Let me explain. 
Naturally, one of my students brought cupcakes to celebrate the last day of school (I’m not only known as a cupcake-lover on my blog). As it was the last day, my students were leaving early left and right. When we finally had our room cleaned up, things packed, and I finally participated in a Just Dance video for my students’ amusement (more on that later, too…), it was Cupcake Time. The 24 cupcakes were more than enough, there were 8 left. Of course, the student who brought them was fully planning on taking them home. I would like to make it amply clear that I would never stoop so low as to beg a nine-year-old for their leftover cupcakes. I’m not that far gone. 
The mad rush to collect all of their precious end-of-year goodies and give me hug after hug, coupled with their desire to get the hell out of school, made for a whirlwind ‘goodbye’ with my students. Yearbooks were left. Data folders, that they would have trashed anyways, were left. Their had-to-have, homemade letters from their friends were left. And, the cupcakes. They were left. Two, almost empty, boxes of vanilla cupcakes were left. I figured she would be back. I waited a few, anxious minutes. Guilt-ridden, I went outside, hopefully, albeit reluctantly, to try to find her. 3 minutes after the bell had rung, and it was a ghost town outside. “Lost” report cards, confetti, and papers littered the ground. All was still, but for a tumbleweed that blew across in the breeze. She was gone. They were mine. 
I felt a sudden internal glee that only fat people, who have an unhealthy love for baked goods, ever feel. I knew it was bad news that I now possessed 8 entire cupcakes, cupcakes topped with the sweetest confection of sugar ever created, but my unhealthy addiction and glee overwhelmed my sense of good judgement. 
If anyone saw me leaving school with all of my treasures, they surely videotaped it and uploaded it onto YouTube with the heading, “Watch Fatty Teacher Leave School and Almost Drop Two Boxes of Cupcakes Exactly 32 Times”. I can just see the comment section now: “Damn, she dropped her phone, purse, bag of whatever, and her keys, but she didn’t drop the cupcakes-no words”. That would have been the nicest thing said. 
When I finally got home, lugged in all of my shit, along with my prize, I felt victorious. I made it home, and not one cupcake was injured. 
My boyfriend was aghast that I brought two boxes of cupcakes home, as he shares my love (and obvious addiction) of anything remotely sweet. He, too, envisioned us sitting on the couch, in our fat pants, devouring them all. All he had to say was, “Babe…” and it all became clear. I have serious problems. We did NOT need 8 cupcakes, like at all. The cherry on top: my boyfriend then asked me, “Why didn’t you put them all in one box?” Good God. Not only am I fat, I’m a fucking genius too. 
So, to address how I began my summer vacation in a Good Samaritan way, I put all 8 cupcakes (in two boxes) out by the dumpsters in the alley, for the bums. Almost daily, we have homeless people digging in the dumpsters. All they ever find is moldy spaghetti leftovers and black bananas. Last night, one lucky vagrant came upon a gold mine. I’m such a saint. You’re welcome. 
Here is the proof:
  
And, the proof that our local homeless people have more smarts than a teacher. Whomever took the cupcakes likely transferred them all to one box. Doh! 
  
So, there you have it. I have started off my summer on a positive, healthy note (I won’t mention that I attended our school’s happy hour, devoured a food truck Philly cheesesteak, and ended the night with a Double Caramel Magnum-I can only give up so much!) 

And the Journey Continues…

Today was the 4th time I’ve attended a yoga class in a time frame of less than 5 years. Meaning, I’ve gone every week for a month now. There ought to be some prize for this, I feel quite deserving. 
Last week’s session was rough. I didn’t drink enough water prior, and I forgot, somehow, that I have asthma. Not being able to breathe in yoga is frowned upon. Also, I felt immensely dizzy and just awful. I spent most of my time in child’s pose, seeing squiggly lines, and trying not to puke. 
Today, I drank more water and used my inhaler (what a novel idea) and the difference in my ability was immense. I did not feel lightheaded until the up and down, over and over ridiculousness. I also fend strangely stronger than before. Could be because I haven’t given up after my second attempt, so GO ME. 
I did some yoga research, and I’ve found that feeling dizzy is more common when doing yoga than I previously thought. I would have blamed it on my utter lack of physical ability, but I’m not the only one getting the spins. I hope the dizziness lessens, because passing out in yoga would be the end of my yoga journey, at least at The Studio. I can deal with being the fattest chick there, but being the fattest one there who passes out in a puddle of sweat? Um. No. 
So, my pal, Amy kindly took some very off-center, and highly unattractive photos of me doing some super basic moves. I know one is the Warrior, and one is the Tree. The other one, it could be called Fuck My Life, for all I know. 
I would like to explain why I blurred out my face. It’s because I have a terrifying workout face. It truly needs some work. GAH. I also couldn’t showcase my ugly mug AND my sweaty pits. So, sweaty pits won. Of course, enjoy. Also, don’t laugh too hard. 
    
  
  
 No, my foot is not on the wall, looks like it though. I’m not that bad!  
Thank you, Pinterest and Buzzfeed for the awesome ecard that was totally made for me in mind. 

Diet Schmiet

Am I the only one whose diet goes out the window the second a change in schedule happens? The other day was Field Day, and lunch was provided, lunch which consisted of sandwiches, chips, and cookies. I think there was watermelon, but I saw a mound of cookies, and nothing else mattered. Normally, the germaphobe in me would have hesitated before reaching for random cookies. Who made them? Did they wash their hands? Did their child help, with their booger germs? After carting around hot, smelly, tired, and cranky 3rd graders from activity to activity all morning, I took, and inhaled 3 cookies. I still can’t recall the flavor of these cookies, but at the moment, they could have been poop cookies for all I cared. When I’m tired and stressed, and my schedule is all out of whack, carbs and processed sugar are all my body will accept. Cabbage salad? Nope. Won’t.Open.Mouth.Can’t. 
A day after Field Day, I am still tired and stressed (I think this has nothing to do with the hot-as-balls Field Day, but more to do with end-of-year tasks that seem to never end) and I’m still making poor choices. Today, my excuse was I had to sit outside and watch a soccer game, and it was horribly humid. I also had to tell my students 387 times to stop pulling out the grass and watch the game. So, naturally I had to eat an entire avocado with my tacos (it’s the GOOD kind of fat, alright!) and half a bag of tortilla chips. I think I also ate a vanilla Tasty Kake. 
*Sigh*…I’m really sighing over here, guys. I’m feeling the reality that I will be suffering from “Thigh-Rubbage-Rash” AGAIN this summer. No thigh gap in sight with this chick. I also still have arm-flappage in a major way. I guess I can use them as fans. So…that’s a positive. 
Tomorrow is a new day, but everyone knows diets can’t start on Thursdays, so I’ll have to eat poorly until Monday (official diet start day). Besides, the end-of-year happy hour will be happening after the last day on Friday, and you know an immense amount of liquid calories will be consumed. 
Maybe I’ll sweat out all of my poor choices at hot yoga tomorrow? Maybe! 

Swamp Ass

This is what I want summer to represent:
The warm breeze tickles my toes as I lay beneath a swaying palm tree. With eyes closed, I can feel the coolness of the shade, and then the warmth of the sun on my eyelids as the palm’s branches dance with the sky. The air smells of pineapples and Coppertone sunscreen. A wave lazily laps the shore, and the repetitive sound soothes my soul, and calms my mind. I lazily fall in and out of sleep, unaware of time or reality. My toes find their way deep into the sand, where it’s cool and damp. I slowly make my way to the sea, through sand soft and white. My sun-kissed skin feels renewed as I plunge into the cool salt water. I float on my back and watch the clouds pass, as my life stands still. 
But, I am not rich and I can’t “summer” in some luxurious tropical paradise. 
So, this is my summer existence:
The sun’s rays beat down on me, without mercy. It’s 95 degrees, with zero humidity, but it feels like I am in a steam sauna located in the pits of hell. There is zero breeze, zero reprieve for even a second from heat so hot it feels like a wet blanket smothering me. Even in the shade, the heat harasses me, relentlessly. The AC in the car takes the entire ride home to cool my fresh-out-of-the-oven-baked-potato-on-wheels. The beater air conditioning unit in my apartment groans as it hesitantly puts out room-temperature air. Every fan is on, but they just idiotically blow hot air, and dust balls onto my damn Popsicle. I have been sweaty since exiting the shower, and I have asked myself every day, “Why even try to feel clean? Why shower?” The only moment I get a break from the repressive heat is during that glorious 2 hour span of time between 3:00 and 5:00 AM. I finally feel dry and slightly cool, and half human again, but it doesn’t last, the relief is never long enough. The sun is up again, without fail, and it’s the same unbearable existence as the day before, with no end in sight. 
Over-dramatic much? Yup. The AC in my classroom isn’t working, and for the better part of the day it was a balmy 82 degrees inside. I pretty much can kiss any semblance of a dry ass ‘goodbye’ for at least 3 months. For anyone who knows me personally, knows I run hot, and I hate the heat. Hate is not a strong enough word, but my brain is too overheated to come up with a better one. 
I know summer means all those cutesy things in every lame “meme” we are inundated with the second it stops snowing, but usually summer just means swamp ass to me. Unlike the rest of the world, coming into summer, I am not looking forward to the heat. A couple glorious months away from my classroom, I am elated about, but the hot part of summer really blows. 
I hate how my seat belt in my car is unusable after an hour in the sun. That little metal piece of shit is deadly. And the steering wheel? I’ve had to learn to steer without touching the bastard. I hate how I start sweating immediately after showering. I hate the feeling of a sweaty scalp and sweaty underboob. I hate how it’s too hot to even walk to the mailbox at 11 at night. How people run, or wear beanies in the summer make me wonder if aliens are already among us. If I could spend my summers in Antarctica, I would be happy. 
Despite the intense dislike I have for the sweltering temperature of summer, I do eventually accept that I will be sweaty and uncomfortable 24/7, and I start to enjoy the perks of lazy summer days. It just takes me a little to come around. After enjoying the first few days of freedom from my job, the heat seems like a pretty fair bargain. 

Porta Poop

Can I just take a moment to express how much I hate porta-potties? My hate and disgust is so strong that I will directly avoid events where I know only shit boxes will be provided. Portable toilets are hot, putrid, foul places that I never, ever want to find myself in. Ever. Today, I had to use a poop house and it was horrible. It was so horrible. I want to describe my shitty (literally) ordeal for your reading pleasure, but first, I would like to share where I believe my fear of porta-potties came from. 
When I was 15, I began dating a guy who was a total Creatine-head. He drove a ridiculous, embarrassingly huge truck, with stack pipes so big you had to know they represented what he so sorely lacked in his pants. He was a hot head and a fool. I was even more of a fool for dating him, but that’s another story or twelve. Anyways, I would accompany him and his family on camping trips out at Pyramid Lake during the summer. Anyone who knows Windless Bay beach, also knows that Windless Bay really means Wind So Strong It Blows Your Tent Into the Lake, Along With Your Sleeping Bag, and Favorite Down Feather Pillow. The wind at Pyramid Lake is like a big “Fuck You” to your ignorantly innocent belief your camping trip will be pleasant. 
So, let’s recap, it’s fucking windy at Pyramid Lake. This particular beach also has two porta-potties for the entire beach. Two. How generous. It’s basically a germaphobe’s living nightmare. In case anyone wanted to know, wind and porta-potties aren’t the best of friends, especially so, when the porta-potty isn’t even anchored to the ground, in any way, shape, or form. I’m sure we have all inferred at this point that I had an unfortunate experience in a portable toilet at Pyramid Lake. Yes, I had to use a porta-poop in a wind storm and the experience has affected my mental stability since. I have Porta-Potty PTSD.
I don’t really want to get into how horrible the realization that you may, quite possibly, be in a porta-potty when it tips over, because I don’t have enough Xanex and bleach to erase the memory. Simply, I wouldn’t wish, even on Kanye West, the worry that the likelihood of being covered in other peoples’ poop is frighteningly high in such a situation. It was terrifying, let’s just leave it at that. However, the absolute best part was that my boyfriend, my walnut-for-a-brain boyfriend was outside the porta-potty, as my life was flashing before my eyes, and I was hastily asking God for forgiveness for all of my minor transgressions, shaking it. He was shaking the porta-potty. He was helping the wind along. He was shaking it like a big, dumb buffoon, laughing like a fool. I simultaneously wanted God to forgive me my sins and to kill another human being. When the horrific ride in the porta-poop finally came to an end, I mercilessly beat him over the head with a flip flop. I should have dumped him then and there, but I was D.U.M.B. at 15. 
So, I am really not fond of porta-potties, but who is? I mean, I doubt there is a single person on this planet who seeks out these portable nightmares, because they get a kick out of the experience. 
Today, at the Renaissance Faire (yes, I went to a Ren Faire, shut up), I mistakenly thought I could take my purse in the porta-potty. For anyone’s future reference, there is not a single square millimeter that is safe for you to touch, so why subject your precious purse to possible exposure to God-knows-what? So, I had to exit, apply half a bottle of hand sanitizer, and find my boyfriend to watch my purse. Upon my second attempt, I mistakenly looked in the hole! WHY IS THERE ALWAYS DIARRHEA? Does some asshole go around and diarrhea in every porta-potty he sees, or are the runs more of problem than I previously thought? 
So, now comes the decision to brave sitting my naked, innocent ass on the vile seat or risk hovering and subsequently being splashed by the diarrhea. This decision stresses me out to the point I start to sweat profusely, and now I’ve been in a nasty, hotbox for far too long and I haven’t even done my business. I decide on hovering, because contact is just too terrifying. As I attempt to dodge the pee on the ground, while trying to not touch the front of the toilet seat with my pants, I notice my hair is almost in the urinal. It’s dangling IN THE URINAL. 
I can’t even.
I almost just exit, mid-pee, with my pants around my knees. Scarring children for life, or the obvious embarrassment of exposing my hairy ass, seemed better at the moment than the sensory overload of nasty in that hell hole. As a serious germaphobe, these disgusting situations make me almost insane. It took me an hour to stop sweating and convulsing, and I’m still positive I’ve contracted syphilis.
Next time I find myself out in the woods, or at a concert, I’m holding it. I’m effing holding it.