Friday, February 27, 2015

My tomb; Electra's dictionary

John William Waterhouse's The Lady of Shalott inspired by Tennyson's poem 


I have forced everyone and everything away. I have chosen to do this. To shut down. Bolt all the doors and bury myself within. This tomb. I hope my instinct to follow this deep down into my rabbit hole is right. I fear otherwise, like there will be no coming back from inside here. And I fear other things where this could take me. But I need this so much. I feel so battered. So beaten by everyone. And those hurtful words of one, I think that is the worst. It is one thing to be rejected by someone but very different to be actually stabbed in the gut by someone who uses the vulnerable secrets you shared as part on the rejection. I don't want to ever let anyone in again. I think I finally learned this. I think I would rather be that odd, little hermit than keep having to feel so wounded each time I let open the door of trusting chance.

This insult on top of injury. Working to get strong after Dean only to have the false security not only abandon you but betray you too by telling you that he can't live with your drama (some of which he created) or your issues (which he liked and enjoyed at first) or accusing you of misconstruing what I know was plainly expressed in his own words. I am left with the conclusion that he is the cruelest person I have ever known. The coldest and the most ruthless. To shrug me off like a momentary interest makes me wonder if he has the attention span of a flea and the sincerity of a demon.

I want to exorcise him out of me. Do a metaphoric medieval bleeding. The illusions were the poison.

I don't want to even step out. I want to stay in my tomb. To find something. It's something I lost.... where did I lose it? How long ago? I knew how to do this when I was younger. Much, much younger. I knew how to keep the world far, far away and not ever let anyone in. It is so obvious to me that I should never have decided to learn how to trust, to be a member of society, really, because I am really not like society at all. My childhood made me different. So the same techniques don't work on me. I'm not equipped with the same structures of instincts based on the typical experiences of the social norm. They don't apply with me. I cannot blend.

I don't care anymore. And I used to. I really did try to be normal. But it's not worth it. It isn't worth how bad this feels or how much time I end up spending being tortured and sad, regretting whatever I exposed and left feeling like a freak and an idiot. It doesn't matter to me. I don't care anymore about the opinions of society. I don't care about impressing people. And I think I am also even willing to admit that I never really approved of the morals or conscience of the accepted ideas of society. I think people are mostly fake in that world. Their values disgust me. Their judgments. I don't want to be one of them. I never fit in there and finally I can see that I am really glad I never did. I like being who I am better than trying to be accepted by the majority that repels me anyway.

I am reminding myself of this me. That me who chose not to be friends with the popular crowd when I was a new kid at the American school. I remember being blown away that the person who asked me to be a member of the popular crowd could actually admit that it was an intentional group that excluded the “uncool” kids. I was thirteen and so disgusted. I knew then that I would never want to be the type of person who lived by superficial values and making impressions that were not even original. I never wanted to conform. Conform as in to consciously tailor oneself in order to be liked! --and approved by everyone.

If that is the world “Ash” worships and cares so much to be accepted as a member into, than maybe the person he really is is actually not the person he showed himself to be to me. And I am starting to realize this and realize that he would only have made me miserable. To be hurt by him on a regular basis; to have my most personal confidences first accepted and then later ridiculed.... which side is the real side? And he is the one who said “you think you know somebody and one day you find out....”. I have begun to wonder over the accuracies of what he said happened in his life. Maybe it was all brought on by him. Like his distorted interpretation of me, in the end. His sudden complete 180 spin that was a completely different person. And maybe he had just worked really hard to pretend those insightful conversations gauged by practiced calculation of what he knew would work on trying to impress me. That is the only explanation for how fast he turned so cold. The flick of the switch. That explains how he evidently does not care about me at all and coldly used me as my daughter said he did. This is the only explanation that makes any sense. In this case, he represents and embodies all thing that I feel to be vile. I think then.... I must truly hate him.

I am the better person. He was a fraud.

Where do people go like me? I guess they live on pages left behind from their own tombs. Maybe this is why I found my own version of acceptance in the words of long dead mentors. Bronte and Nin, Tennyson, Keats and Wilde. Where something necessary inside themselves required them to communicate to be immortally, eternally left behind for kindred spirits that come and go on this planet. I mean, what else is any better proof to me that I am not the only soul who ever walked this earth and felt these things and felt so alone but steadfast in knowing this is the only way I can be. And if the masses won't ever get it, so be it. Take it or leave it, this is me, who I am and if Socrates had no choice but to have society take his life for being true to his moralities, than, on principle, I should be willing to suffer the consequences of going it alone and swimming against the stream. What other choice do I really have at this point in my life? All other ways I have tried turned out to fail me and prove dissatisfying.

When, eventually, if ever I (because I'm not sure if I want to or ever need to) venture out again, step outside my tomb.... I'm keeping on the shields. Will never take them off again; won't betray myself again. I have learned this, finally. And my moments of weakness when the hollowness of my tomb echoes of silence, I will have to remember to remind myself of my immortal friends, select some passage and read out loud until I can feel them with me in my tomb. And draw comfort that way. My spell against the temptation if ever I am again moved to think to want to believe or think I need to believe there can exist anyone I would ever dare risk to trust again. Wear my protection faithfully like a metaphoric and literal condom. No one may trespass again. No one gets through these walls again.


I like my tomb. I like the silence, mostly. I can do whatever I want. I can do nothing at all all day. I can be selfish, behave decadently if I choose to. I owe no one any explanation. And when I want a body, I know where to go and I will if I feel like it and when I feel like it and have as much or as many as my whim will take me. But not beyond the flesh. And I think I would rather those times be short and done with, quickly, because most people bore me anyway and I value my time alone and like being alone more than not. But right now, I am only padding my tomb. Cementing the doors shut. I can wrap packing tape around my body if I feel like I need to be held. Held together. Because arms that hold you and make you feel safe are illusions that can and will abandon you as soon as you depend on them. 


Thursday, February 26, 2015

Janus, my Gemini (here's that blues song you asked for)

File:Janus-Vatican.JPG




everything you ever said to me was a lie
all those amazing things,
the hours we spent talking
and all those times that you did cry
Janus, my Gemini

you said I was your other half
you said you would always be around
but now, I guess to you, all I am is just a laugh

I know I should hate you
and I should have hated you from that day
all those songs of me and you
the ones you'd send to me,
all illusions of love you promised, all a dream
they were all just part of your scheme

Janus, my Gemini
you are Janus, my Gemini
the one who lied
the one who cried
the one with fear that hides
the one with two faces that denies
Janus, my Gemini


because that magic that you had turned to dust one day
I heard it in your voice
that day on the phone
that day you left me with no choice

I feel through me you've vented some revenge
some malicious feud you rage against my gender
for the bitterness you were left with from your divorce
and for what your mother did to you, of course
but I’m not your whipping boy
and I wasn't just your kinky play thing,
your little fuck doll toy

Janus, my Gemini
you are Janus, my Gemini
the one who lied
the one who cried
the one with fear that hides
the one with two faces that denies

Janus, my Gemini
you should look in the mirror sometime
and maybe you'll see that it was me
the one who came to you
when you called in the darkness
of that dream

but everything you ever said, turns out is such a lie
according to your alibi
it seems your friend “reason” you've been talking to these days
has turned you around and now Janus' other face
has turned your heart black to fully erase
those beautiful promises you made
and in my place---
---there is left not a trace

Janus, my Gemini
you are Janus, my Gemini
the one who lied
the one who cried
the one with fear that hides
the one with two faces that denies


Janus, my Gemini

Tuesday, February 24, 2015

Unconscious conscience



I was scrubbing. It slipped from my hand leaving behind a deep gash. I had such a strange dream. This is what I was thinking about. It was a dream I must have had before because during the dream, my unconscious consciousness told me I knew what was going to happen because I had seen this before. And I did know.

It was one of my flying dreams, no, not one of those I've had where I could fly. So I watched the blood. A lot more came than I thought would. There was such strange fascination watching it but in a way that I felt no personal connection to it. Blood bothers me, usually, anyway, I can't even stand having to deal with it once a month without wanting to vomit. And this time as I look I see only the purity of the vibrant color and try to estimate how to re-create it with paint. The contrast against pale skin. And in this dream was Matt, someone I knew from high school at the international school. I see him on Facebook often. I don't know why he was in this dream.

There was some kind of evil empire taking over, and sometimes we all sat in a movie theater audience watching ourselves. And everybody from my life was there commenting. Even Matt who stood up and said, “this is such a stupid movie!” and someone behind me said she really liked it and told him to be quiet.

Like a waterfall of vibrant color. With everything far away. I think it is Venetian red. Sensations muted. Thoughts so dull. And what is stranger still, so weird, is that there was some kind of love triangle with Matt involving me, his wife and this split personality demon of her that possessed her. And she performed before us in a Vaudeville show. He was a kind of Indiana Jones in this, with long hair (this is how he wears it now, I see in pictures) and a beard, rippling muscles. He had an ability to walk on water, like some kind of Greek god.

And in between each spooky, chilling scene with violence and blood caused by the evil empire on the people while Matt seemed to be the local hero trying to save the village (it took place in a kind of market on a coastline), Matt would sometimes take up his old flirtation with me from high school. He would strut by me and smile and then he wrapped his arm around me and pulled me to fly up with him to the top of the market canopy and smile that kind of grin while the villagers would cheer. But then the split personality of his wife would get jealous and leap out of her and begin to kill people. So he was always torn between saving the people in the marketplace and sweeping me off my feet to fly off. Isn't it strange how you remember small things about people you once knew in dreams you thought you forgot? Like how it felt to kiss him, he was very good at it and the dream sometimes turned graphic. Sometimes I watched like a member of the audience but the times with him it triggered a response of memory so that I felt things and would rub myself against him, feel my nipples stimulated and go hard. So very, very weird. Not like the video game dream I had last month that I wasn't in at all. I just watched that one or played it, I guess. Each time the characters would die and I would try again learning where all the secrets were for the next time....

Every time I slam my hand up against something, I look at this gash because I don't even feel it. It's like watching it outside myself. Instead of feeling nauseated by the look of the deep cut I look at it like a scientist observing and with macabre fascination. Jamie says that I should not meet the person that I met in the twenty-four hour store who wants to give me his calculator. I know I would feel the same if I were her. I think I am feeling like a scientist; removed and uncaring. Maybe the impulse, like a kind of dare, tossing the dice off the edge. I thought he just wanted to give me a calculator but he called me “Beautiful” in his text to me. I told him I had the flu to stall for time because.... I don't bungee jump or parachute out of airplanes but I am sometimes so drawn to-- like when I went into Manhattan alone to meet the politician recently, a kind of tempting of fate. And then, ironically, got lost walking back to Vera's that night in a dangerous section of Stamford and my phone froze when I tried to use the map.


I recognize what is happening, only I can't stop it and I guess the center of the matter is apathy. I can reason from an intellectual perspective that this is like playing with fire. Like lying prone on a highway waiting for a semi. To discuss it with anyone would only make me pretend to agree with good advice because internally I know there is a driving reason I feel compelled this way. And I guess that is the real danger, and it's so familiar, like the way I felt each time I ran away in Holland and would walk into some hotel bar and let some man in a suit buy me drinks. But there wasn't really much danger there. I have learned that the U.S is far more populated with wackos, so it is not foolish idiocy at work here,it is impassiveness. The pattern gets more and more challenging with each experience too and I suspect part of it is this sense of breaking free from Dean who kept me locked up in his cage. One part of me wants to prove that I am not afraid of anything anymore but that is also an excuse that blurs the fact that I am sitting at the edge and looking down and just don't care anymore.    

Monday, February 23, 2015

darkness breaks the morning; electra's dictionary



A dark force possesses. I want to be OK, I have to be OK. For Jamie-- but I find myself sinking down. I once thought that it would be enough to be just her mother, that it would give me purpose to hold onto. I wish this could be enough. I wish there was a way to remove all emotions from myself and not be aware of the loss of it. The numbness that I felt while I was still living with Dean.... you know, sometimes I feel I would almost take it back because it did keep me so distracted from myself. I don't even know if it is better this way. That emptiness felt as if it were killing me. But now I have another kind. I don't know.

I have always struggled with this. Would it have been worse to have just given up long ago, before there ever was a Jamie? Because how could I imagine the kind of harm of this it would cause her? I couldn't be that cruel. But I feel like.... how do I say this? from within the center of this anomie.... there is a kind of existence that eats away, a kind of deterioration that feeds within and distorts the rational ability to find or to believe in any purpose. It seems to have a power. It presides darkly as it consumes.

And sometimes I think if I just dive into the eye of the storm and brave it or dare it.... I can overcome it by proving to myself that I am stronger than it. But I think that is always the mistake I make. Because I don't think I am stronger than it. Because that “it” is me. The darkest side of me. And I cannot outwit it because any argument I have can be battled off with the power of this darkness that overcomes everything.

The vices we cling to are the ropes we choose to hold onto as we try to not sink down, they are not the real poison that consumes, only the choice action that is resulted of the poison. This action that helps to distract the terror. The artificial means that only perpetuates a cycle. Without any vice we stand and tempt our balance over the edge. And if the choice, the only choice, that remains is to alternate our vices, substituting one for another.... even that won't fill the void, or heal the pain; won't let go its grip of shame or guilt; cannot possibly cure the heartbreak.

A dark force possesses. It takes over extinguishing all resolve. This time it is the phone that calls, some trite needed use of me....but I fear one day there will be no phone call, nothing to anchor the reason back. 

Friday, February 20, 2015

Electra's dictionary; Narcissus echos




I have had so many strange dreams lately. As if my unconscious is letting open the gates. Out rushes more deluge; a tumble of vintage clocks and broken springs, nickel bolts, in a wave of ocean tide.

I bring Jamie to her therapist, but before I go to pick her up I have trouble getting outside my door. Like the tomb I have been encased in, it is frozen shut. There is ice outside sealing me in! My car door is also frozen. And then the car won't start. It makes all the sounds like it means to, but it just doesn't feel like it. It seems to mirror my own attitude. I try a few times and then I get a text from Jamie asking me if I remembered her appointment. I text her back that I can't get the car started.

So I decide to work on the ice that covers the windshield. It occurs to me as I do this that I have not had to fill up my car since I got back from Connecticut-- well, this was partially on purpose as I have had only twenty dollars to live on until the beginning of next month. So I didn't drive anywhere. And those weeks that I couldn't get my car fixed because “Hank” couldn't get the guy with the garage to answer his phone calls (at least this is what he tells me) my car just sat there undrivable. The very nice policeman had let me off easy but I do live right across from the police station....

After the car is de-iced I try again. It doesn't kick over the next three times, but then, *cough*, it does. I tell Jamie to let her therapist know what's going on and that I'll be on my way soon. She says she already has done. Of course when I get to her dad's, she's not even ready. So I sit freezing in the car waiting for her, and waiting, too, for the heat to kick in. I can't feel my toes and I'm shivering. It seems to lend a surrealism to my ability to think. I sense she is coming and look up, noticing the dashboard clock has moved ten minutes of sitting there. The car has begun to warm up.

I wait for her in the parking lot letting the car run, thinking it should because it might forget to if I turn it off. I brought along a book to read but instead I window shop for draperies on the Internet, thinking I'll only do this for ten minutes. But then, I see her coming and realize I've spent the whole hour going from Target to Amazon to e-Bay. I seem to do that a lot lately. Of course. It's what idiots do when they don't have money. And one thing leads to another, like searching for napkins for my commercial diner napkin holder that is hot pink that I got on e-Bay for $00.99. Only, all I can find is a listing for $60.00 with a minimum of 1000 count. Tempting, I won't have to buy them for years, only, I don't have money so why am I looking at this? It's research. It's my now focused ADHD because before I only would stare at designs, mentally paralyzed and high on colors and shapes. Which must be why people always used to think I was high in high school. I guess that is my natural state.

I spend time with Jamie at her dad's. This is the first time in ages we have. To be honest, I have been feeling rather sorry for myself because it seems I have been excluded from her life by her and her dad. Which is why I have given myself permission to do whatever I want lately because I can't remember the last time I have felt so free. Even if it means the freedom to melt down. Because I haven't been able to do that in so many years. I had to be the strong one all the time in my marriage. I had to be the one who held him up while I turned off all self. And sometimes, lately, all I do is curl into a ball and cry. Sometimes rock. Back and forth and hold my head. It feels like I am grieving. Dovening. I wonder how far back this mourning is for. Mourning becomes Electra.

So Jamie and I get into the kind of conversation I never would have had with my own mother. Sometimes I think I do this as if to spite her (my mother I mean, who has been dead now for over ten years). But, no, I think I really do this because I have always made a conscious effort to not slip into the awkwardness my mother had whenever it came to things like sex. And it is Jamie who brings it up. She tells me that she discussed penises with her therapist just now. I have to laugh. I can't help it. And I feel a sense of personal pride that Jamie can actually say this to me without it feeling uncomfortable.

She says,
I told her that I thought guy's genitalia look like dinosaurs.”

Hmm. I feel this stab of guilt. Instead of expressing why, I say,
is that why you don't like them?”

She sighs,
I think if I really liked a guy it would be different.”

I'm so relieved.

I say,
I know they can be scary.... but, usually, if you really like the person you ….tend to like it. I mean, actually really like it.” I start to laugh.

She says,
you're blushing.”

I laugh harder but cover my face. Because now I am thinking that this is most definitely not the sort of conversation I ever would have had with my mother. But, in all truth, I wish I could have had. I wish she would have been more--- er.... frank. I was not prepared at all. I think this is why I tripped down that dangerous slope of sexual violation, never mind that she imposed some of this. She should have told me more. Prepared me.

Now Jamie says,
I think it was you who once compared men's penis's to dinosaurs.”

Shit. So she remembers. It's all my fault. Shit. I really fucked up there.

Sorry!” I say, “no, really, they can actually really be quite beautiful, and I seriously mean that. I swear! You know, I've always been partial to the pale toned kind with the pinkish undertones. They are like a work of art.”

Let me guess, is that the kind that Dean has?”

Without meaning to, because she has caught me off guard, I really start to laugh. This is terrible! Mom is rolling in her grave. Only she was cremated. Thank god. I am turning onto 12 Mile Road now and heading toward her dad's at this point. I find that Jamie reminds me of being sixteen again. Like every stage of her life. I have gone through them with her from the start. From when she was less than two years old, I worked to get into her head and live from the perspective of her stage of life. Like when I would climb into her playpen.... I miss those days.... we used to dance to Van Morrison at full blast 'Brown Eyed Girl' ….and she does not even remember those days... you know I think those were the happiest days of my life. Those days with her.... and we would play together all day. Share a bowl of farina. When I'd invent smoothies out of banana, vanilla yogurt and soy milk, first tasting it to see if it was good. And the only way to coax her to eat was to pretend I was eating it myself. So, in the end, I would just make up a plate that we would share because she always preferred whatever I was eating to the food I placed in front of her. And hers wound up in the garbage later gone all cold. And I would be hungry because she ate all my food.

She has always liked exactly the same things I like. Which may be why she thinks my cooking is better than anyone's. The competition with her dad is deadly on this.

Today she prepares tacos for me. The dinner her dad made the night before. He had invited me to eat it when he spoke to me earlier today. And then she tells me there is a bunch of clothes she doesn't want, was clearing out her closet and she thought I would like, never mind that I am presently wearing a gray shirt she gave me a few months ago (her dad, when he sees me, says, “that's a nice shirt, where did you get it?” and I say, “you picked it out, Marissa gave it to me.” Which ticks him off. So he says to Jamie, “I'm not buying you clothes anymore, you never wear them.” Hmm, he always did like me in gray. Not one of Jamie's better colors though).

Yet before her dad arrives home, she squeezes in some personal questions and conversation. She brings up.... I'm going to start calling him "Ash" henceforth ... Because it's easier. Someone once told me that I intellectualize my emotions as a method to keep it distant from myself. She takes me off guard, I don't expect him to come up but, should it be a surprise? They did speak to each other and had become a bit personal. She is an impressionable teen, I can't blame her for wanting to bring it up. Maybe you'd think strange, her interest precocious, I knew it was important to be honest with her. She asks me if I regretted what happened.

She says,
he used you.”

But I say,
no, he didn't.” But I see she doesn't agree. And considering her likening the male genitalia as looking pre-historic thanks to me, I know it's important to get this right. So I say, “you know, I am concerned that you sound a little like a militant feminist lesbian. And yeah, I am a feminist too, but I don't hate men. And I don't want you to be a man hater. He did not use me. Why do you say that?”

Because of what happened between you guys.”

It really is impossible to hide anything about myself from her. She figures things out.

I see....” and here my own mother would have lied. And I would have known it was a lie. I think showing Jamie I am human has always been behind my reasoning when I have chosen to be open and honest. I want her to understand my actions so that if she finds herself in similar situations she can remember what happened with me. She can decide if it was good or bad what I did. But the only way she can really determine this is if I explain what was behind my actions. This has not come up before. She has not asked me about him. And the shock of this catches me off guard and I accidentally bite with my front teeth into the inside of my lip. It is only made more awkward because I have a gap between my front teeth. And this happens frequently. Like a suction, it's caught and it feels I am about to draw blood but then the suction releases and, voila!

I start to laugh,
did you see that?” because this is the first time that I have a witness to this.

Oh my god, what happened?”

I laugh explaining. But then I say,
whatever happened between he and I occurred out of real feeling. He had no intention of just using me for sex. I felt things and he felt things. But I know that he wasn't able to handle what was starting to happen because he was not over his marriage –he wasn't ready, even though he ….initiated what was happening. And it's really not his fault. Things just happen that way sometimes.”

Jamie is thoughtful and watches me. She says slowly,
so you don't regret it?”

Of course not!” her question really surprises me. “You know.... I think I would have regretted it more if it had not happened. Because.... you see, I always would have wondered: what would it have been like.... with him. With how close we felt--” I must explain, so I think and then I am very careful here, I measure how much I dare to share with her without feeling too exposed. But she is so much like me emotionally that-- I think it would be a disservice to not confide. Emotions are.... so important to be honest about and to be honest with yourself about. To gloss over this, to be casual, as though to shrug it off... would have me appear as some kind of slut and influence her badly. She knows my issues, my problems of trust... we have always been open. She knows mostly everything about me without getting too overly personal. We are both shy with our innermost emotions and yet we are both extremely sensitive.

In all the years I was with Dean, I never felt safe to share myself. I never exposed myself. And I never did this with her father either. Many years ago, I did trust John that way, but with him it was....? I don't know. He was not....

I take a deep breath and admit,
I have never been able to cry-- really cry.... with anyone.... but, and I don't even understand why-- I did with him. I could. I could be myself with him, I could let him see me. He made me feel safe so that I could and that is not something someone can make me do. It was the feeling between us. And yes it sucks that it hurt. It sucks that he ended up hurting me but I know that was not his intention. So, can you see that? Can you see he didn't use me at all?”

Yeah....” she looks at me and nods. I see she understands. She says, “Wow. I'm sorry, Mom. That must have really hurt you. It says a lot that you could do that in front of him because I know that really isn't like you. He was obviously very special to you.”

When I leave later, saying good-bye and discussing her spending the night at my place the next day, I feel that vacant road that has been between us lately is no longer solitary. I guess I don't mind as much feeling tattered somewhat if, at least, the sharing of myself this deeply, personal part of me with my daughter results in helping her to learn something. That, at least, this and all the other things in my life that I grieve and have grieved over is understood by Jamie. She who is so much like me, who was a part of me.... the only person I can really trust with my most personal self... I'm grateful. I think she will do better at life than I did. I have given her more by exposing my warts and prepared her better for life. So my failures are worth something conducive. And my sense of worthlessness can be just that little bit assuaged.

I don't head straight home afterward. There is a strange feeling of not having to rush home. There were a few moments there when, out of habit, I expected Dean to call. I felt myself tense out of habit expecting this. The pressure to jump at the snap of his fingers. I have to pick up a few things, staying in the frugal budget-- which in a few hours, I reach because my supplies require replenishing. And in my mind I hear the loud, heavy foot of my father on his way to me, the way the floor would always shake and make the walls vibrate.... and a need to reassure myself that I am really free brings me to find a twenty-four hour store that Dean would never let me go to. It went against his personal “morals” to ever shop there. So I go there and everything is so much cheaper there.

I spend the next four hours walking down every isle. At some point I stop another customer to get his opinion on a calculator. We start to talk. He ends up offering to give me one of his own calculators because I tell him I can't afford the one he recommends. I smile and shake my head, but he wants to. He insists. He tells me to meet him back here sometime so that he could give me one of his. And a few other office supplies he has too many of that we stand there discussing! It is so funny. But he is sweet. So I agree and he gives me his phone number so that he can arrange a time to meet and immediately I plug it into my phone and tell him I will send him a text. Which I do as we stand there.

When I get back to my car, it won't start. And the trunk has frozen shut. I get lost twice on my way home because I get distracted by street signs that makes me curious. I think I have discovered a short cut. Which takes me about fifteen minutes out of my way. And by the time I stumble in the door with a week of mail that erectile vomits from my mail box, it is by now almost 1:30 AM.