Friday, March 31, 2006

Tag Along

Y’all muhfuckas don’t know me.

...But I'll do my best to oblige. :)

Well…I been tagged. But the whole ‘10 Things You Want in a Mate’ hits a lil too close to home at the moment…so in lieu of it (and cuz it's Friday and I'm lazy) I will revert to a retro questionnaire that I sent to my friends when the ‘get to know you’ email versions got to be kinda boring and unrevealing (and which I also posted here a month or two ago).

As for being the tagger…I don’t dare assume that I can call any of you reading this “regulars” and therefore demand you do this shit…but how bout this…if you’re reading this, consider yourself tagged…and if you wanna play along, cool!

While I manage to maintain a semblance of anonymity with this blog voice…there is still a sense that none of this is worth sharing unless you’re being real. And I’m gearing up for a very revealing series on Heartbreak, beginning next week (unless I chicken out)…one that hits so close to home that they charging me extra rent.

Until then, get to know me...

Wednesday, March 29, 2006

“Why Sistas Stare At You and Julie When You’re Walking Hand in Hand Through the Mall….It’s Not Cuz We’re Hating…It’ s Cuz…..”

Welcome back to our in-depth look at White Girls. If you missed Pt. I, never fear…the sale ends when all red-tagged items are gone. Let's call it The White Sale.

So insecure interracial minds wanna know:

Q: Why DO black bitches, I mean, sistas stare at me and Julie when we’re walking hand in hand through the mall?

A: It’s not cuz we’re hating…It’ s cuz…..we’re nosy. Plain and simple. At least THIS sista is.

What had happened was...

He and I interned at the Today Show together back in the day. Mad cool, Chris started a week before I did, so he was assigned to show me the ropes…ya know, the important details like the tape room, the research library… the Rosie O’Donnell and SNL studios (where I would later have my infamous dance-off with Shaq…another story for another day).

It was an intense semester and Chris and I bonded and kept in touch long after. So when he called me one night a few years back to tell me he would be in town from Nevada I was happy to make plans.

So we meet at a midtown Manhattan pub near Madison Square Garden, get a lil bent. Then we start walking down 7th Ave into the mild evening air… cloaked in nonstop conversation through the garment district, in and out of the heart of Chelsea, past the swanky bars on 14th Street, and into the pulse of the West Village.

Every progressive metro has a “Village”. In Philly it’s South St., In DC I guess it’s U Street, Dallas it’s Deep Ellum. Ya know, the communal social toilet where you can get the best drinks in town. Where the mohawks and chain belts mingle with the same-sex kids, where tattoo shops and purple hair are as common as the stop signs on each corner. Anything goes in the Vill…except I guess, for the eccentric sideshow of a sista with a white boy. ::GASP::

Oh, I didn’t mention Chris was a cute white boy...and I, a wise sista? I digress…

By now, we’re so comfortably lost in the great, easy conversation. Immersed in the joy of spending quality time with a good person with whom we shared a pivotal moment in our young professional lives. We’re holding hands as we walk.We stop at a little kiosk near 8th St. looking at cheap silver rings and braided bracelets. The Indian woman behind the cart gives me the ice grilly. Rather than defensive, I get suspicious…

Did it look like I was about to scoop up that thumb ring that I thought was cute but not for THAT price? Is my shirt buttoned too low like a loose chick? Is my part crooked? WHAT?? I got a gin and tonic stain on my cleveland or somethin? [note: my cleveland is more like Akron. Sista could use a high-calorie diet for the tits. ::sigh::]

I pay her no mind, but Chris notices it too, and as we continue down the way… toward a clearing in the skyline that would have given us a plain view of the WTC had it been a few years earlier… he informs me that for blocks we have been the talk of the town like Wendy Williams. I’m suddenly hyperaware of the constant stares. And not like regular, “Damn, those are some cute pumps Sista's rocking” looks. But undeniable "WTF?" glares.

We laugh it off as we approach Tribeca, pointing out a million other things that should have been considered an oddity...

The bag lady pushing a dirty baby doll in a stroller walks along unnoticed.

The cat with the nut-hugging plaid orange cut-offs is chillin like Ralph Ellison.

But the Black girl (rocking the cute azz pumps, might I add), and the handsome, trendy white boy are starring live on Broadway.

While the attention was amusing, I could relate...

Anytime I visit my hometown, the mall is always a destination. A quick one, for sure, unless you sincerelly want a reunion with your 3rd grade classmates or any bad fucks from back in the day. They WILL corner you at the food court. Never fails.

And it also never fails that nowadays I can’t travel between Claire's Boutique and Yankee Candle without passing an interracial couple or two. And by interracial I do mean black boys with white girls. And more and more the party involves a stroller.

I don’t give a fcuk about PC, this is an ode to my own personal politics…and this is alarming to me on so many levels. These are the same dudes you couldn’t pay to walk around with a sista of ANY hue. Naw, he prefers to stroll the summer festivals and concerts with his boys. The same dude who demands my homegirl get rid of his seed. This is the cat that is hugged up tight playing house with Becky and Darnell Jr.

So when we see the Lizzie Lovers, with said Lizzie, in the mall or on the street, yeah we do stare. But hear Heather tell it, we’re isolating them, and making them feel uncomfortable…like a sista is lifting up her shirt to brandish a gat in the waistband or some shit. Gimme a break like the sitcom.

Personally speaking, I usually don’t give them the satisfaction of thinking that I care that they’re together, because in all honesty, I don’t. It’s not my concern. He’s your headache now, Laura.

But sometimes, just to be an azzhole, just when I see them consider turning and walking in the opposite direction when they see me approaching, I might look them both in the eye as I pass by. And smirk. Same way I would do an Ex on a day I’m looking extra fly.

In this day and age, I doubt many sistas are really that pressed about making a scene…unless of course looking is considered Act I.

Here are a few reasons why I look at Darnell and Becky:

Ø I want to see if I know him…in which case I can try to figure out why he’s with her (slow down…it’s not a white thing. Any time we see an odd couple we wonder why and how. Think: JDupri and Janet)

Ø I want to make sure he’s never or never in the future tries to holler at me. I’m typically not into dudes who like white girls. Shut up…personal preference.

Ø I want to glimpse their dynamics. Ever wonder if Tiger Woods’ wife ever slips and calls him a "fcuking honkiniggachink"? I do. Or if Heidi Klum laughs when her model friends tell her that their code name for fine azz Seal is "Amistad"? Yeah, I’m dying to know too. So I always study to see if she looks like the kind of redneck who’s perpetually got “broke nigger” (yes, with an 'ER') on the tip of her tongue.

Ø I wonder if what brothas say is true…are white girls more accommodating (read: buy them shit), and are they really more obedient? So I’m nosy, looking for Foot Locker and Structure shopping bags stuffed under the stroller, and downward cast eyes from Jenny, as receipts hang from her jacket pocket.

Ø I want to see what “type” of brotha this is. Is he the young, broke opportunist? The mature, I-never-meet-any-sistas-on-my-socio-economic-level dude? And since I’m convinced I’m an excellent judge of a book cover, I always trust my 1st look instincts.

Ø I’m also interested in what type of white girls like black guys. Is she the no-one-at-my-Dad's office-can-find-out, Mom-is-so-pissed WASPY chick…the Girls-Gone-Wild type…the Honor-Society-student-gone awry…or the corn rowed I-grew-up-with-niggas white girl named Tasha? Just wondering.

Look, we hear about white girls like it’s a fairy tale lifestyle….so naturally we’re curious about you and Snow White. You really expect us not to be after you hoist them up on pedestals high above our nappy roots? That’s like asking a Mexican not to look toward the border.

We’re curious…but not always contemptuous. And rarely as consumed or concerned as this (too long) blog post may suggest.

But I get it. I can relate. Perhaps the Village People were just curious about me and Chris. Was I a valley-girl-accent in-black-face? A stripper meeting a client on my day off? A die hard suburbanite? An athlete’s daughter? Straight from the Ivy League? A starving artist on my way to the casting couch?

And who the hell was this cute white boy with impeccable taste, walking her all the way from Midtown to Ground Zero?

So I’m opening up the phone lines to the females reading this…

Do you get curious when you see the Black.White? Why? Why not? Do you fear Darnell and Donna get the wrong impression? Have you ever been confronted by an insecure couple?


Friday, March 24, 2006

Go..Go..Go..Go...Go Shawty!

Yeah, it's this blogger's birfday!
When my dad died a year and half ago, the funeral director told us that a lot of people die in the month that they were born. He was five days shy of his 62nd born day. It seems natural to be preoccupied with thoughts of how you’ll exit the world on the day that you came into it….

But that was probably the last thing on my mind the year my sister threw me a surprise birthday sleepover at her crib with L–Dubb, Gay Bartender and Curly. (PS – That was a hella big deal cuz Jamaican parents don’t play that sleep ah sum’ahdy else yahd nonsense)

Or the year when Cathy Shutz, this mousy white chick in my 3rd grade class approached me all shook and apologetic because she had forgot my gift at home. I looked at her like, ‘damn, am I THAT popular and powerful?’ She came in the next day with a chocolate bunny and another flurry of apologies.

Or sophomore year in college when Gay Bartender threw me a surprise dinner with none of my new friends cuz she didn’t know them…or my 21st, when I threw up two bottles of Mad Dogg, an undisclosed amount of $1 lemon drops and buttery nipples (the drink, ngga!), 151 (NEVER again), tequila and Heineken in some random dude’s toilet.

Or my quarter-life bday when my crew slipped into VIP at Hard Rock Café (one of AJ from 106& Park's HOT joints) without dropping the $100 damage by frontin' like we were down with the birthday party of a diminutive Queens rapper whose wife has the same name as me.

Or the birthday where Funk Master Flex called out my plus sized home girl who was wilding out in the club: “You need to get off that speaker… YOU ARE TOP HEAVY!”

Or the romantic dinner and quality time b-day with NC a few years back.

Or the year I bit off Heidi Springer and made her legendary cupcakes in ice cream cones and brought them to school for the whole class (5th grade).

Or the year my dad forgot my bday…it was around the time my grandma got real sick. I had all but already spent that born day cash, too!

But I’ll remember this 2006 late-20something birthday as the one where I got carded…buying a lotto ticket. (Damn, bitch…I don’t look 18??!)

How come birthdays are like Valentine’s Day…full of unsolicited expectations? How come if you just wanna relax and be low key on your special day (read: saving every little dime for my upcoming foray to Vegas), people lift an eyebrow? How come not having a significant other sucks a little bit more today? How come people gauge the value of a birthday by what people give you?

And how come I’m guilty of gauging how much people love me by the time of day they call me?

...Gay Bartender (my girl since 4th grade) just after midnight, as always.
...Mack just before midnight, then at noon today as expected
...Phatz during his lunch break (with a story about some ngga, as usual)
...My sister this morning, singing a full two stanzas of happy birthday
...My brother this morning, saying it by not saying it
...Other two bros stopped by before work
...Sister in law for a hot second at lunch, asking if she could skip the singing
...My nephews as soon as they got home from school
...And my mom at 2p…which is pretty good since usually I have to call her. :)
...The Ex-Con…MIA as expected. :(
...Anyone who hasn't called by now is suspect.

Today I pour out a lil liquor for the old days when birthdays were about bringing enough for the whole class.

For the days when birthday cards ALWAYS had money in it…usually a dollar for each of your years.

For the days when I would have been flattered to have dudes I don’t like wanna show me a good time. (raincheck, fellas)

For the day I don’t watch the clock waiting on a call I long for but know not to expect.

Naw, for now I’ll just pour out a lil liquor for him, too.

And some for my Daddy.

“You can find me in da club!”

Friday, March 17, 2006

Colored Boys For Sale: Seeking White Female Buyers. Series Part I

I’m putting Black boys on the market... mainly because I'm bored with their logic. Consider this like a red-tag sale, where only those marked are up for grabs. I wouldn’t dare give them all away. And there’s no need to actually go through and mark the ones that are discounted…we all know who they are. They are in my immediate dating pool, and I don’t feel like wading through the bullshit. That was soooo immediate-post-college.

I earned my certification to negotiate such transactions by virtue of being prematurely generalized and labeled a “problem,” “a liability,” “dramatic,” “controlling,” “independent,” “opinionated,” “ugly,” “insensitive,” “emasculating,” and “sexually repressed,” among other serious offenses. You see, I'm a convicted Sista.

SOME Black boys are “allegedly” like Ron Artest…they are beautiful and brilliant, amazingly talented, and hard working. SOME can also be unfocused and immature. Unsure of their desires. They kick azz and ask questions later, get suspended, fined, (or arrested and fired), lose money, lose credibility, lose their way…

And SOME sistas are like Donnie Walsh and the Pacers…lending support, defending him, making excuses, allowing him to still practice with the team, while he's relentlessly maligned at work, in the press, in society.

And what do SOME brothas do in return? They say they’re worth more than the Pacers/Sistas are paying; they have superstar talent and capabilities, and they feel that they’re holding the team back…except in reality that's usually verbalized as something like, “I need to explore ALL my options.”

So instead of bickering, instead of being “put on alert” and threatened that I can be replaced, instead of continuing to patiently endure the inane, contradictory, and largely unnecessary justifications, I’m setting you boys free. Putting you up on the blocks just like in the old days, and see how much I can get for your sorry azzes. Because the message I hear is that you’re for sale.

But just for clarification’s sake…

Yes, SOME sistas DO take issue with brothas traipsing the alternate route through Ghosttown. Why? Here are a few reasons…

Y’all LOVE blaming us for your decision to go there.
Y’all LOVE blaming us for your decision to go there.
Y’all LOVE blaming us for your decision to go there.
Y’all LOVE blaming us for your decision to go there.
Y’all LOVE blaming us for your decision to go there.

Sistas don’t have shit to do with that…so please stop.

Do you have any friends who you’ve just seriously outgrown? Every time you speak to them you realize it’s always a sorry spin-off of the same conversations you’ve been having for over a decade. I swear to you, that’s how I feel about this issue. Dudes been saying the same shit for YEARS and as we get older, all I ever want is to start being critical thinkers, if not intelligent ones. I’m so tired of having to explain to grown men the same things I had to break down to Burke in high school.....

Burke was (and dammit, still is) the finest boy in high school. And he knew it. He was such a problem. Curly, who is one of my best friends (and who reminds me a lot of her), went to school with him from Kindergarten thru HS and she was (and still is) in love with him.

I’ll never forget sitting in the Senior cafeteria as sophomores when Burke says, “I don’t mess with black girls at all. They’re too mouthy.”

He then chronicles a brief stint talking to one of the “sassiest”* girls in our school, who also happens to be quite attractive and outgoing and smart.

I say to him, “So that experience represents experiences with all sistas?”

He says, YES.

I tell him he’s an idiot for excluding his own race, but refrain from references of self-hate, cuz I know it will go right over his head. I respect his right to date whomever he desires, but openly ridicule his ignorance, since he openly expresses it.

So who was Burke’s cup of tea? Kiera, this white girl from his JR high school. She was the doting daughter of a doctor, whose love and obsession with Burke rivaled Curly’s. Burke was a star athlete who rocked a lot of fly sports gear, Jordans, whole nine, courtesy of Kiera’s allowance. She was neither attractive, nor smart or outgoing. Not exactly a plain jane, but definitely a girl with identity issues.

She didn’t go to our high school, but we all knew her, because in social situations she’d follow behind him clutching a granny pocketbook, wearing her soccer mom tapered jeans, nitpicking and nagging. She held his bulging biceps like the jaws of life, neck whipping in obsessive compulsive succession, eying anyone eyeing her man. I say this not to berate her, but to say that I believe she mirrored her own mother…who, incidentally the doctor Dad had just divorced.

She also seemed to mirror what she believed was black culture. She bought her way in with all the Jodeci, SWV and 2Pac CDs. Was a Cross Colours, Karl Kani and U-Men fiend...matching from scrunchie to shirt to socks. And, true story, she went to a black hairdresser, and yup, you guessed it…got black relaxers. No joke, a white chick with a Dark & Lovely. So in essence, it appears Burke just wanted a light-skinned black girl with money! (Today, Burke is one of my very good friends, and he now co-signs this hypothesis. He also admits to liking women he can control...he now has a black fiancée, who is 6 years his junior (22)...and trapped him by getting pregnant (twice). That’s a WHOLE 'nother blog, really.)

Then there was Spence in college, who told anyone who would listen, that he was half Italian. He came to my crib one time with one of my boys, and said he hates black girls cuz their hair smells like grease (his preference was Prell).

I swung my press and curl right underneath his nose and let him follow the fresh strawberry scent right to my front door.

“And what does your Nigga-talian azz smell like besides cheap weed and malt liquor?” I respond. And a hint of garlic.

Then there’s my best guy friend on earth, Big, who could only hang around our college-turned-pro athlete friends for so long before he caught the bug too. It’s to the point now where he doesn’t even spend enough time with sistas to get to know any. He’s always at this spot in White Plains, getting drunk for free, falling in love with Jessica…no, that really is her name.

Look, as an adult, it is not my business who the hell you fall in love with. You do not need to explain or justify that to anyone but your significant other. But I do take issue with the fact that as I get older, more and more guys are complaining about sistas and then claiming refuge with white girls... who are equally as dramatic. Is their drama somehow less than ours?

And why is it so appalling when a sista looks at a white boy, or even a Latino guy? Brothas are twisting their nuts dry over this Sanaa Lathan movie (rather than joining the dialogue in an intelligible manner, or simply supporting a non-violent black film).

Dudes are calling for Eve’s head.

The point is, I for one am tired of the same old debate, when frankly, your love life and preferences shouldn’t even be up for discussion…

But, since SOME of you black boys looooove dragging us into the fray…TRUST, I do have some things to say on behalf of ME, one mouthy azz black girl.

Next Up in The Series: “Why Sistas Stare At You and Julie When You’re Walking Hand in Hand Through the Mall….It’s Not Cuz We’re Hating…It’ s Cuz…..”
>>*Sistas, isn't “sassy" white people's new PC for "bitch?"

Tuesday, March 07, 2006

White Bitches & Hoes Can Rhyme, Too

Ok…I decided I’m not exactly up for a good ole fashion internet litigation right now…the fight’s just not in me at the moment, so I won't jack the video and post it here. But this is the funniest thing I’ve seen in a long time. I’m still a fan of Saturday Night Live, tho I missed this episode. But please check it out. You WILL laugh out loud.

Click on ya girl, MC Gangsta Padme'...

Saturday, March 04, 2006

“So Remember, Most Guys Can Fuck…But The Guy Who Gives Good Head, He's Got It Made”

I have to say that the Head discussion is quite a mouthful! The feedback, from females and males alike, has been insightful to say the least.

So I leave you with this weekend wanderlust as I head out of town for a few….This was presented by an anonymous poster to the comments section…and I believe the message is one that should be recognized all on its own.

[Note: While I trust wholeheartedly in Anonymous’ skill, oral acumen and critical analysis, a quick google search will show that this was a copy/paste job.]
When a woman finds a man who gives good oral, she's found a treasure she's not going to let go of too quickly. This is one rare customer and she knows it. She won't even tell her girlfriends about it or that guy will become the most popular man in town. So, remember, most guys can fuck, and those who can usually do it satisfactorily, but the guy who gives good head, he's got it made.

Most women are shy about their bodies. Even if you've got the world's most gorgeous woman in bed with you, she's going to worry about how you like her body. Tell her it's beautiful, tell her which parts you like best, tell her anything, but get her to trust you enough to let you down between her legs. Now stop and look at what you see. Beautiful, isn't it?

There is nothing that makes a woman more unique than her pussy. I know. They come in all different sizes, colors and shapes; some are tucked inside like a little girl's cunnie and some have thick luscious lips that come out to greet you. Some are nested in brushes of fur and others are fully bare. Appreciate your woman's unique qualities and tell her what makes her special. Women are a good deal more verbal than men, especially during love-making. They also respond more to verbal love, which means, the more you talk to her, the easier it will be to get her off. So all the time you're petting and stroking her beautiful pussy, talk to her about it. Now look at it again. Gently pull the lips apart and look at her inner lips, even lick them if you want to. Now spread the tops of her pussy up until you can find her clit. Women have clits in all different sizes, just like guys have different sized cocks. It doesn't mean a thing as far as her capacity for orgasm. All it means is more of her is hidden underneath her foreskin.

Whenever you touch a woman's pussy, make sure your finger is wet. You can lick it or moisten it with juices from inside her. Be sure, by all means, to wet it before you touch her clit because it doesn't have any juices of its own and it's extremely sensitive. Your finger will stick to it if it's dry and that hurts.

But you don't want to touch her clit anyway. You have to work up to that. Before she becomes aroused, her clit is too delicate to be handled. Approach her pussy slowly. Women, even more so than men, love to be teased. The inner part of her thigh is her most tender spot. Lick it, kiss it, and make designs on it with the tip of your tongue. Come dangerously close to her pussy, and then float away. Make her anticipate it. Now lick the crease where her leg joins her pussy. Nuzzle your face into her bush. Brush your lips over her slit without pressing down on it to further excite her. After you've done this to the point where your girl is bucking up from her seat and she's straining to get more of you closer to her, and then put your lips right on top of her slit. Kiss her, gently, then harder. Now use your tongue to separate her pussy lips and when she opens up, run your tongue up and down between the layers of pussy flesh. Gently spread her legs more with your hands. Everything you do with a woman you're about to eat must be done gently. Tongue-fuck her. This feels devine. It also teases the hell out of her because by now she wants some attention given to her clit. Check it out.

See if her clit has gotten hard enough to peek out of its covering. If so, lick it. If you can't see it, it might still be waiting for you underneath. So bring your tongue up to the top of her slit and feel for her clit. You may barely experience its presence. But even if you can't feel the tiny pearl, you can make it rise by licking the skin that covers it. Lick hard now and press into her skin. Gently pull the pussy lips away and flick your tongue against the clit, hood covered or not. Do this quickly. This should cause her legs to shudder. When you sense she's getting up there toward orgasm, make your lips into an O and take the clit into your mouth. Start to suck gently and watch your lady's face for her reaction. If she can handle it, begin to suck harder. If she digs it, suck even harder.

Go with her. If she lifts her pelvis into the air with the tension of her rising orgasm, move with her, don't fight her. Hang on, and keep your hot mouth on her clit. Don't let go. That's what she'll be saying too: 'Don't stop. Don't ever stop!' There's a reason for that, most men stop too soon.
There's another thing you can do to intensify your woman's pleasure. You can finger-fuck her while she's enjoying your clit-licking talents. Before, during or after. She'll really like it. In addition to the erogenous zones surrounding her clit, a woman has another extremely sensitive area at the roof of her vagina. This is what you rub up against when you're fucking her.

Well, since your cock is pretty far away from your mouth, your fingers will have to do the fucking. Take two fingers. One is too skinny and three is too wide and therefore can't get deep enough. Make sure they're wet so you don't irritate her skin. Slide them inside, slowly at first, then a little faster. Fuck her with them rhythmically. Speed up only when she does. Listen to her breathing. She'll let you know what to do.

If you're sucking her clit and finger-fucking her at the same time, you're giving her far more stimulation than you would be giving her with your cock alone. So you can count on it that she's getting high on this. If there's any doubt, check her out for symptoms.

Each woman is unique. You may have one who's nipples get hard when she's excited or only when she's having an orgasm. Your girl might flush red or begin to tremble. Get to know her symptoms and you'll be a more sensitive lover. When she starts to have an orgasm, for heaven's sakes, don't let go of that clit. Hang in there for the duration. When she starts to come down from the first orgasm, press your tongue along the underside of the clit, leaving your lips covering the top. Move your tongue in and out of her pussy. If your fingers are inside, move them a little too, gently though, things are extremely sensitive just now.

If you play your cards right, you'll get some multiple orgasms this way. A woman stays excited for a full hour after she's had an orgasm.

Do you realize the full impact of that information? The potential? One woman was clocked at 56 orgasms at one sitting.

Do you know what effect you would have on a woman you gave 56 orgasms to? She'd be yours as long as you wanted her.

The last advice I have for you is this: After you've made her come, made her your slave by giving her the best head she's ever had, don't leave her alone just yet. Talk to her, stroke her body, caress her breasts. Keep making love to her quietly until she's come all the way down.A man can get off and go to sleep in the same breath and feel no remorse, no sense of loss. But a woman by nature requires some sensitivity from her lover in those first few moments after sex. Oral sex can be the most exciting sexual experiences you can have. But it's what you make it. Take your time, practice often, pay attention to your lover's signals, and most of all, enjoy yourself.

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  • So...Wise??

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    Our Nation's (HIV) way of Harlem, NY and Upsteezy NY
    I'm older than I look, and stupider than you think. But I'm quite proud of my sharp eye for The Ridiculous, and by Ridiculous, of course I mean Me.