Med Life And Other Oddities

So in Cali, on Saturday, I ran out of my medication. I had the option of calling my doctor back in NJ and having him/them/it call in my perscription. But
1) I was having too much fun to make a pharmacy pitstop,
2) I was being transported, as opposed to transporting myself, and so I didn't want to interrupt their flow
3) I missed a med before and figured I'd just ride it out until I got home.

So let me tell you the two things that happened to me on the plane rides back to New York. I hesitate to give too many details because I don't want the ladies in question to somehow find this story from a Googlation.

But anyway, leaving Cali, I had an aisle seat. There was a young couple next to me. The fella asked me if I would trade seats with him because his wife was feeling ill and it would help if she had an aisle seat. So I got the window--a nice view. (Whatever meds left in my system let me enjoy the scenery. I'll be posting pictures.) When the fella said, "My wife," the girl in question made a little gasp and said, "You called me your wife." It took me a few minutes, but I asked, "So you guys are just married?" Happy nods. I sidled into the window seat and spoke briefly with the groom. They were heading out to their honeymoon. They'd been married in one of the San Somethingorothers. His name was Such-and-such. Me, I took some pictures out of the window, put on my mp3 player to drown out the dental student in the seat behind me who had that kind of voice (proceeding to use it for the ENTIRE trip), and when "Save The Best For Last" came on, I bawled for a half an hour. Good thing I had a window seat.

Now, it seems likely that this happened to me as a result of being off my meds. However, the elements were also in place for a good drenching. First off, I was leaving my friend behind and there was no telling when I'd see him again. I missed him even though it was only just three hours since he'd dropped me off at the airport. Secondly, here was another example of the M-word sitting next to me, young and fresh and new, just starting their adventure together while I was going back to Alone Street. Thirdly, "Save The Best For Last" by Vanessa Williams has some sad-ass chords in it.

Eventually I dried up and the bride justified the need for the seat change all. the. way. to. Texas. Barf bags are your friend. Unfortunately, she ran out of them and commenced to using a plastic (read; poorly insulated and in no stretch of the imagination airtight) bag. It helped eliminate my doldrums like Raid helps kill roaches.

Okay, now for the connecting flight from Texas. My seat was on the two-person side this time instead of the three-. To remind you, I was off my meds, so I didn't want to hear it. On Headphones! Switch to Janet! I was in musical bliss. EVentually my seat partner came in the guise of a normally configured gal who slept for most of the flight. Me, I read comics (my stash from the Comic Con) and eventually used my laptop battery power on some script pages for My Hero's second season of audio. This seemed to get her attention. When the battery beeped at me, I saved the document and put the comp away ... and she asked me what I had been doing.

The conversation that ensued was an anomaly from out of time and space, largely because it was happening to ME and not Joe College, backwards-fitted hat, flip-flop wearing, "dude"-sayin' Johnny Square-Jaw. She opened up immediately, revealing her profession. The nature of it was a cross the Scarlet Witch and Psylocke. (Sorry non-geeks, but I can't describe it any better. In laymen's terms, she was a mystic.) Of course I was skeptical. She tried to give it as much legitimacy as she could manage, but it was coming out like this; "mwah, mwah-mwah, mwah mwahhhhh" (my best typed impression of Charlie Brown Adult speak). Then I went and told her what I did (for the uninitiated, I'm a therapist) and it seemed like my attractiveness factor went up exponentially at that point. Oh she went into her manic depressive ex-husbands and boyfriends, and her New York friends, and why did her life take this direction, and what she told this one and that one and "honeychilde" this, and "okay?" that and rolling her neck, and snapping her fingers. And no, she was not black. She was adapting to me, who is. Not my favorite style of communication, may I add at this point. After she'd brought herself to tears, she started in on me. She actually asked me ... ACTUALLY ... "When's the last time you had a lover?" This came on the heels of her showing me a picture of herself when she was a model. It was quite a tasteful b&w pic. Topless. I sh!t you not.

And then I got them digits (ie; phone number). Again, no sh!t content to this.

But here's what needs telling. She was a total wreck. She was as manic as Brad Pitt is famous. She was completely inappropriate with me, a stranger. She was over the top.

And she was ready.

I know with all my heart and soul that she'd be an AMAZING lay. She'd sing opera. She'd have me swinging from the ceiling and speaking Portugese.

She'd swallow.

Now, here's the question. Should I call her?

See, I was off my meds. I had a real life crying jag that morning. But even so, I didn't feel attracted to this gal. (Isn't that just the story of my life?) In fact, I felt a little scared. This was something out of a comedy movie like that one with Ben Affleck and Sandra Bullock--she was a nutter and he was getting married. But her wildness attracted him and he threw everything away to be caught up in her whirlwind. But here in my case, it wasn't scripted for maximum laughation. And it wouldn't end conveniently with a roll of credits.

And Scott, also also notable is that she lives in your city, not mine. She invited me to go hang with her, but all I was thinking about was that it would be an opportunity to go hang with you as long as I was in town. Now that's no way to treat a lady, right? And as sure as I have size 9 1/2 shoes on, I just know that even if she and I made an arrangement to be eff-buddies, she'd catch feelings and make my life miserable if I didn't commit. When I said she brought herself to tears, I mean literally cried as she mentioned one of all those exes. Now, I'm a good therapist, but damn. I wasn't doing therapy per se--I was just making conversation.

So tell me people, is this the second coming of Glenn Close, or is this the unmedicated fearful me talking? Guys, what would you do? What have you done in the past?

Meanwhile I hadn't started my meds again until this morning, and I'd been dizzy for the past two days, which the doctor's office said was a side effect of stopping the meds so soon. Which sucks. Doc offered to have me come in to have my blood pressure checked, so evidently the meds affect my circulation in order to assist my brain. That's a little scary. And I hate being dizzy. But I like not being anxious more than that, so I re-upped.

Anyway, I need feedback on Crazy Plane Girl. Let 'er rip!

ALIIIIIVE!!! ALIIIIVEEE!!! Mwahahahaaa...

*kisses the tarmac*

A Bit Of Anxiety Indulgence

Because I had to go and read this article on my Yahoo Mail Main Page.

Because they survived, I will continue with my plans, and would even do so if they didn't, but it does open the door for ghosts of Worst-Case Scenario Man to whisper sweet dreadings in my ear.

I leave tomorrow morning at 6 AM. If for some reason my plane does not take me home safely, and I never walk soil again, I'll tell you right now, it will suck and it'll have been the worst way imaginable for me to go out (which is why I can't watch the phenomena of the TV show LOST, what with all that effing flashback to their plane crash) but on Monday night, with it having been all over with and it only existing anymore as just news articles and film footage and impassionate news reporters' words as they move on to their next topics, like the pulling of a bad tooth, I will thereforth be experiencing relief. Mourn me, curse the world for it's unfairness, pour one out on the ground for the departed, but believe me when I tell you--this last month of my life has had me living my dreams and I'm quite okay with it coming to an end on a high note.

And with me being dead, I now have all my questions answered. Was I gay? Is God real? Did He love me? Did He take me to Heaven? Was there a Hell?

And all my challenges are over. Would I ever find love? Would I learn to manage my finances to assume the life of an independent adult? Would I ever have made a child? No longer an issue. No longer a problem.

So, I leave you to your own coping mechanisms. As for me, I appreciated every one of you. You enhanced my life. You made a difference on Planet Earth, if only for the life of One.














But I still hope I'm around to blog on Tuesday because I've got some AWESOME pictures to share!!!! :smile:

In Cali!!!!!!!

My flight landed successfully. Twice. (Once in Texas and once here in California).

So I hereby declare my next four and a half days as Drama Free Days.

I'm going to party like a Geek Rockstar.

I will have pictures.

And I will put the Church Drama Resolution Heartbreaker Extravaganzafest on hold.

I encourage you dear ones to do the same. :-)

Crossroads

So the thing I've been dreading and not even blogging about has come upon me. In the most cinematic way. As in, "written by an author for maximum viewer impact."

Of course, I will explain. Grizzbabe will understand best, but you guys will be able to catch up quickly, I'm sure.

Back when I was 16, I joined a very, very, VERY strict church. And I was a total part of that church up until I was 27, when my mother died of cancer and I went off to a religious pilgrimage to join the ministry. Honest injun. At the time, I was convinced it was the Voice of God sending me. I'm still not convinced today that it wasn't. But Lord knows, literally, that I'm no longer following that inclination.

I've blogged a few times about my adventures in Missouri, but I've rarely detailed about my life from 16-27, while I was Holy Joe Christian. I have, however, mentioned that it was a total haven of sanctimonious living that helped me successfully avoid all attempts at sex, which was perfect for me since I was (unbeknownst to me) such a damaged set of goods.

Whelp, from 16-27, I had lots of good friends in church. I had crushes on girls and I had crushes on boys. Naturally, in church, you only act on the girl-crushes when you're a boy. So I did. I had gone as far as to get my heart crushed by the girl I feel that I was in love with as she told me "I need a man, not a boy" and proceeded to marry the organ player. No worries, she was bad news. She and he got along like a mountain lioness and a pit bull. They divorced some years later. It was a sad tale for them and a bullet that I totally dodged. Later on, I got engaged to another girl who was head over heels in love with me. The tender, dear heart. I still think of her with a sweet fondness. And she was fine, too. Once when driving her back from one of our first dates, she fell asleep while we drove on the Palisades Pkwy, and I gazed at her and felt like taking her right then and there on the side of the road. It was a triumphant day for my testosterone. I'm sure I sprouted my first few chest hairs then. Needless to say, we never got married. It was my decision and my fault.

One of the boy-crushes I had is more aptly called a "man-crush". I've already exploded my take on man-crushes ad nauseum, but here I call them "boy-crushes" because I was a boy then. But there was this big, brusque, panther of a friend I had who was showing me just what it meant to be a player. He was a smouldering operator that almost all of the ladies loved. And I navigated in his shadow. He too came to a sloppy end. See, in a church as strict as ours, his behavior was highly frowned upon. His personality won everyone's hearts but his actions were atrociously normal. So after a highly Scarlet Letter-like pregnancy scare from one of his groupies, he was ousted from the church.

His father, however, had been my friend and father figure from way before I had met The Player. His father lived in the same apartments that I did, and seemed to care for me before I even knew I needed caring for. Childhood Bud would know this man (since Childhood Bud lived on the same side of our apartments as he did). In my early days, I'd ride to church with this man, and wish dearly to be his son. Until his real son moved in (The Player). And his other son. And his other one.

I was soon squeezed out of the me-time I had with him and had to share him with his children (he had daughters too), not to mention all my other guy-peers who saw him similarly as a father figure. We were a lot of fatherless dudes in that church and this man was a rare commodity. But being who I am, I got tired of sharing and withdrew my affections to a tolerable level. I found others to fill the gap. And eventually I moved to Missouri.

Well, what I didn't realize was that this man always retained his affection for me. Through all his children and all the other fatherless boys vieing for his attention, he still cared for me. I was one of his "sons" and he knew how to love his children.

I discovered this yesterday, when after 14 years of distance and scattered occasional "hellos," we ran into each other a block from Central Park.

I was walking my usual route back from the center when he got my attention. He was sitting in his livery vehicle (quite an upscale affair) preparing to meet a fare in the neighborhood when he had looked up from a puzzle and saw me walking. Like the gasp from a blow to the solar plexus, he barked my name.

When I saw him, there was no holy light outlining the moment. At least not for me. But for him, in the half hour following, I learned that the appointment was no less than Divine. For the past 14 years, he'd been asking God how I was doing and when he would ever see me again. He would not -- had not accepted that I was gone. Church people can be like that, and this man even moreso. He had known and cared for me from before I had even started going to the church. In his heart, he had adopted me.

I realize I had done him a disservice by leaving without keeping contact.

Now.

I am very, very different than I was when he last knew me. And he is still very connected to the church I once went to. The very, very, VERY strict church. Through him I learned that the very, very, VERY strict pastor is still running the joint. The pastor that I have been staying away from.

So this man and I have exchanged numbers and he wants to get together to catch up on my life in a few Saturdays.

What do I tell this man? How much of my utter apostasy do I reveal?

I want to tell him everything. EVERYTHING.

What do you, dear readers, think I should do?

The Lengths I Go To

So, here's the deal. A few Saturdays ago (the 5th) I hopped on board the MetroNorth and went to CT to visit MFTD. His wife and baby went out to her homestate for the 4th, so MFTD wanted some company. He was 30 lbs. lighter than the last time I saw him. How'd he do this, with his Type-AAA personality, with no time to fart, let alone exercize or count all his money?

Nutrisystem. That's right. The freeze-dried, vacuum-sealed, pre-packaged, pre-weighed, insta-meals that helped fatties all over the country hack off 30-60 lbs. without lifting a finger. Of course I was skeptical ... before I laid eyes on MFTD. And MFTD is not a sucker. If the food was nasty, he would have told me. But what he did do was give me three "meals" to try. A chicken patty, a cup of scrambled eggs, and a pasta bowl (cheese tortellini).

Yeah, powdered eggs to add water to and microwave. Makes the stomach gurgle just to hear the description, right? But I tried it.

IT WAS EGGS!!! Really scrambled eggs!! I could not believe it!! And totally hot (not Hilton hot, but thermometer hot). And filling!! I was good for hours afterwards.

But the key is that you eat this stuff, and a few hours later eat something else, then a few hours later something else, rinse repeat all day. Six meals. Some of those meals being fruit, which I like. Some of those being snack chips. Some of those being cake or cookies as desert.

The cheese tortellini, great!! Sweet sauce and tasty, tender, sizable rolls of pasta!

And then this chicken patty. I was soooo dubious. I saved this for last and I carried it everywhere without nuking it. That means unrefrigerated. (That's right--you don't store this stuff in the fridge--even the meats!)

It was E-YUMM!

So today, on payday, I ordered my first month. It is indeed, as they advertise, about $10 a day. You pay monthly. And I do not plan to spend a single solitary dime for fastfood while I'm eating this stuff, because trust and believe, I spend WAY more than $10 on fast food (and restaurant food) per day already. This will be me actually saving money.

And losing weight.

So I went as far as to take a picture of myself in swim trunks. (Shorts, not speedos--because hey, not to brag, but the only place I could post myself in speedos is on a gay porn pic site. I'm just saying. I can't be having my goodies on such display. I'm a working professional with a license, after all. But I digress.)

I know for a fact that I will lose the 30 pounds that I want to. And then I will take the "After" shot in these same shorts.

And I will post it then. For 24 hrs.

Why do this?

Because I admit to myself as I to and fro in the City of The Beautiful,that if I were built like some of these weekend warriors, I'd go barechested too.Of course, the thought starts as, "You big showoff, braggadocious, amazing-looking yummy bastard..." but then I cave and know for a fact that I'd strut mines too if I carried like they do.


And so, I will. I promise. And to keep it humble, I'll post it with the "Before" pic that I took today. So keep checking in a few months. I'll be so fine you won't know how to act! BTW, I took all these pics myself. No one's sacred!!

Hi Everybody!

I have a few thoughts to share as of late.

Currently I'm posting from one of my day job sites in centralish Jersey. This is the place where one of my co-workers (in my department) has brain cancer. My boss (also her boss) always has me coming down here to gauge how much more her job performance may have slipped from the week before. No one wants to confront her about a medical retirement, but everyone feels she isn't who she used to be.

Before I started my meds, being with this woman at this site used to really drive a stake into my heart. She has what my mother had. And this woman will die like my mother did. She knows it. Not about my mother, but about her own mortality. She stays upbeat here at the job, informing me about clients and reporting about their psych appoinments with a big smile and many department in-jokes (read: shop talk). And all the while she's counting down the seconds of her life. Amazing. She has college-age daughters and a husband, and I can't see their reactions to her illness through her eyes because she keeps the atmosphere so cordial and light. So I can only imagine. And then I try not to. And I thank God for my meds, because now I can blog about this and not want to go home and sleep the rest of the day away.

In other news, one of my geek buddies via internet was bemoaning the fact that a woman he was courting recently rejected his overtures for going to the next level. His words, and not mine, was that his downfall was that he was too nice, and he was sick of women who kept proferring the bad boy over the good guy. On Independence Day (how ironic) I replied in this manner;

Your story has been my story ALL. MY. LIFE. :checks watch: Yep. All my life. In Jr. High and High school, I got in with a group of girls because I was madly in love with one of them, but lacked the guts to approach her, and then one of her friends (also a friend of mine) invited me to sit at their table at lunch one day, and I never left. I also STILL never could say out loud, "DeeDee, will you go out with me". So school year after school year, I'd watch her go out with bad boy after bad boy.

This was my own failing...but I don't blame myself. I had a lot of things going against me when I was young. And I do mean textbook, jacked-up, needed child-intervention authority services things. So I couldn't have acted any other way, and I didn't. So I missed out.

And today, I still lack the bad boy gene. I'm Harmless. Mostly. I don't even drink. And I'm wayyy alone.

But you know what I decided a little bit ago?

EFF 'em. That's what I decided.

There are always going to be differences in the world. There are going to be dream marriages like and 's and there are going to be singletons like me. That's just the way it is.

So I decided to enjoy my singleness. I went to HeroesCon and guess what? I'm going to the SanDiegoCon at the end of the month. I don't need to arrange babysitters or ask permission to spend the budget. I don't need to buy more than one ticket on the plane. And if I meet somebody I like to hang out with, I don't need to worry about anyone else having fun but me.

Now, I know there are benefits to coupledom. I've seen enough representation. And I admire everyone who has been badass enough in their lives to get a mate, and get that freak ON (even you --you know it's possible--you've been married) but I just can't drive myself crazy wondering how the other half (okay, how the other 9999/10000ths) live. If I did that, I might as well lose sleep as well over what it'd be like to be White in America, or to be tall, or to have living parents who actually loved each other and me, or what it'd be like to live closer to you guys where we could all be playing D&D on the weekends, or have cookouts and dog-sit each others pugs, or a million other variables that I will never experience.

But I am what I am, and I got what I got.

So EFF 'em. I refuse to be unhappy. REFUSE! I've got just this one life, and by all standards of chronology, it is nearly half over. I'm not spending the rest of it wrapped up in the sh!tty kind of misery that the first half was in. Not doing it.

So I got me prescribed some meds that hacked the edges off my life and I'm now soaking up the sun, baby. Eff the universe if it can't take a joke. I got comics to read, cake with buttercream icing to eat, friends to chat with, places to go, things to see. Ladies, you don't want to get with me? You'd rather somebody pull your hair and call you a bitch to your face? Knock you up with a kid neither of you can afford, and join the harem of Baby Mama Drama? You're welcome to it. Me, I'd rather sleep soundly at night and wake up in the morning with hope instead of dread.

Because as it stands right now, there's a future ahead of me. Anything can happen. Still. But I'm tired of waiting for it. I want to be happy NOW.

So, to reiterate -- EFF it. Eff it with a double-thick condom and spermicide lathered on the outside. Eff it with no-skid combat boots on. Eff it sideways, swinging from a hammock, in a soundproof room with the neighborhood's known screamer squirming underneath.

EFF it.

This is my new motto, and you are heartily invited to use it too;

"Happiness... Now."

And I meant it. Still do. And it's working.

And when I look at my co-worker, who is dying right before my eyes, and I see that see refuses to sit home and waste away, or pine about how her family will struggle without her, or any number of depressed things she could do before she shuffles her coil off, I know that I have no excuse.

Life, here I come.

Happiness. NOW.

Like Night & Day

I took the med yesterday morning, and this morning I'm like Julie Andrews in the Sound of Music. Frikkin' bluebirds were swirling around me, helping me make up my bed, for frak's sake. I'm all, "The HIIIIIIIILLS are aliiiive...!!"

Dude. Meds. It's what's fer dinner!

Mind you, these lil' babies are time-release meds, so taking them in the AM apparently triggers the "Woo!" Effect by the AM of the next day.

However, now at work, having eaten my bagel and yummy walnut & raisin cream cheese (where in the parking lot of the bagel store, I watched two suburban goddesses back into each other as they rushed out of their spots to get to their Pilates classes, or where the hell ever they were going. I'm ever so slightly bitter against this town where I bought the bagel because it is where I had the accident--um, wait, I mean where a pregnant suburban goddess ran into ME. And may I just say my insurance company STILL has not reimbursed me yet?) I am slightly groggy. I have a ton of paperwork to do, so I'm sitting at my laptop, and I did complete two documents, (out of 16--at this particular site alone) but my muscles feel like they want to either jump out of my skin and go for a 3-mile sprint, or lay the hell back down and be let back to sleep. I would prefer the latter.

What isn't helping is the fact that tomorrow is another legitimate holiday, and again, I have a clean plate--no day job, no counseling center clients, no NOTHIN'. SWEET. And then on Saturday, more of the same. Except that MFTD invited me up to his CT digs to watch the Will Smith superhero (?) movie, and hang out with him all day since his wife and baby is visiting her folks in the country's middle for the holiday. So this day cannot end nearly fast enough.

And I came here to bolg about it because blogging always seems to wake me up.

Hola!

Experimental Drug Use

So, I tried something about a week ago.

I had forgotten my med one morning last week so instead of waiting until the next day, I took it that night and decided I would continue taking them at night, for convenience sake. I've been doing that for a week. And you know what happened as a result?

I lost my morning person!

What's fascinating is how concrete and solid the change had been, and how I can now quantify that it was due to the meds. I wake up later now and I'm dragging like I used to. Getting to the gym in the AM? Puh-lease. I'm on the net instead of prepping for the day, and generally, I'd like not to even leave if I had a choice. But I've no choice. Must ... work ... to ... make ... A LIVING--! (At least, until I ditch the day job and go full time as a therapist ...)

So last night I didn't take the med. This morning, I shall. I need that morning pep back. I liked it.

The Long Way Home

So yesterday I utilized my phone in the absence of a canceled client and called two friends who I never call. One for the first time ever and the other who's place I have a standing invite to visit (in the city) and have not yet done so, These were good, friendly, lighthearted, hobby-related convos. It took the edge off, as do the meds.

So after the client that did attend (two per night) I recalled my strive to be happy, and I decided to photograph my journey from the counseling center to revive my sense of wonder that I wound up in this position.

After I come out of the center, I look up the street to the west, then head there.


I get to the corner and take a look around. I realize I'm not sightseeing in this beautiful place. I belong here.


I turn north on 7th Avenue toward Central Park.


I get to the corner of Central Park South and 7th Ave.


Crossing CPS, I look west again and am lifted by the beauty of Columbus Circle. Those are the two towers that the Cloverfield monster leaned on and the foolish heroes of the movie scaled up in to rescue the damsel in distress.


After crossing CPS, I plunge into the verdant depths.


I go further in. This is how I like my green--topped with the towers of Manhattan, with sexy joggers all around.


I go further in still.


I round a path.


And happen upon the newly designed Blurry Kingdom of the Chidren. Mind you, it is about 8:20pm, but it is Summer and the sun has not set yet.


Turning west again, I pass Blurry Kingdom and draw near to Blurry Rock.


Like hundreds of others in this woodland, here is a Path Not Taken.


From the Vale of the Blurry Rock and Blurry Kingdom, I ascend to the North-South jogging road.


It crosses many an ornate bridge.


And winds past many a green meadow. Sheep's Meadow, in fact. Where on a sunny weekend, you can see dozens, if not hundreds, of bodies basting.


My foot, properly clothed, on the curb of yon jogging path, older than any of you reading this, and probably older than your parents too.


The Blurry Hounds strain at their mistress' leash in attempt to rend the small fluffy white dogs. Miraculously, the mistress is able to deter them. The Blue Knight to the left is none too sure.


And lo, our journey brings us to the Tavern on The Green.


Where the chariots await lovers and families of all ages.


I have concourse with two of yon steed. They will have none of my traffick, for they are ensconced in their vittles. Or dreams of escape. I cannot tell.


The night is falling and so I make my way out of the Park.


Before I reach Central Park West, a magic pool reflects a world where the inhabitants live with their feet in the air and the heads upon their ceilings.


I cross Central Park West, looking north. I find it isn't as dark outside that park as inside.


My journey from CPW to Broadway is an uneventful one, and so I do not chronical it in pictures. Now I am on Broadway, facing North. I could take the 1 train att 66th, but I get another idea. (I saw The Incredible Hulk in this theater on Friday, btw).


Further north I go until I reach the 70's. Rent in this building is easily in the low $2000's.

Here's where the 1 train stops at 72nd St. It's also where My Super Ex-Girlfriend (played by Uma Thurman) extinguished a fire in a classic building that would be located over my left shoulder if this pic where actually a hologram and you could look behind me.


I move slightly forward, aligned with the 72nd St station to my left and...


...happen upon the politically active Gray's Papaya! Yes!! My bright idea comes to fruition!!


The Recession Special for $3.50. That's Pina Colada in the cup. No ice. It was smooth and delicious.

And as I balance my drink while nibbling down these salty dogs of war, I think to myself, I have it good. I love this city. I belong here. I'm staying.

It's the little things.