Oh, and in retrospect it tasted great. Hope that allays any fears.

I’m not really big into pot. It’s the kind of thing I’ll smoke socially from time to time, but it’s far from a mainstay in my life. I rarely clean my bellybutton (which is probably why it smells more like a bellybutt), but I likely clean my bellybutton more than I smoke pot. My girlfriend is trying medical marijuana as an anxiety treatment and she’s been pretty pleased with the results. Occasionally I’ll join her if I have a free night where I don’t need to accomplish anything. Not often, but every once in a while it’s nice to coast for a stress free evening. When it comes to alcohol, I have a large tolerance. Weed on the other hand, hits me hard and fast. I like retaining a certain level of awareness and getting high throws that right out the window. I’ve always been a soft touch on it so I’m careful to have only small amounts at a time. One or two puffs is more than enough for a few hours worth of mellow and it’s rare that I imbibe more. Last night we were having a couple over for dinner who’d just moved to Toronto. We had a tiny toke maybe 15 minutes before they were set to arrive. I had a drag and a small puff. Five minutes before they were due to arrive I turned towards my partner in horror.

“Oh shit. I am way too stoned to host a dinner.”

She assured me that we were a team and we’d get through it together.

One of my issues when I smoke is that I have trouble parsing information. It’s not that I don’t take in information, but my usual subconscious filters come out to the fore. It makes almost everything a conceptual minefield. Furthermore, it certainly didn’t help me prepare dinner. We’d put roast veggies in the oven much earlier, so those were cooking away. We’d chopped up and salted eggplant to sweat out the excess moisture. All that we had left was to pan fry it and heat up our guests’ shepherd’s pie. I had two pans going with 1cm thick slices of eggplant. One was large and non-stick, the other was a cast iron grill pan. Outwardly my guests saw me cooking eggplant. Inwardly my dialogue was a little more like this…

When was the last time I cooked eggplant? Have I ever cooked eggplant in a pan? How long did the recipe say? Five to seven minutes per side? Does it change if one of the pans is flat and the other has a grill? Does that mean they need different cooking temperatures? How much oil do I need? Is this a light pan fry or something deeper? Does deep frying even happen in a grill pan? Won’t the oil get stuck in the grooves? What kind of texture does fried eggplant have? Do I want it to be soft and gooey or crispy? Or a combination of the two? I remember something in the recipe about eggplant being naturally bitter. Is that a flavour that subsides once it reaches a certain level of cook-ed-ness? Or is that something I need to counteract with spices/ingredients? Isn’t eggplant umami? How do I balance that flavour? Do I need to add lemon for acidic elements? Garlic? More oil? But doesn’t eggplant soak up a ton of oil? Does that mean I need more or less? It’s getting burnt, is it supposed to get burnt? Does that mean that I’m cooking it well or does that make me a bad chef? Am I a bad chef? I know that I like it when there’s a burn to things, but is that because my tastes are weird? Or is it a taste that people naturally enjoy when it comes to eggplant? Wait, am I trying to place my values when it comes to food over the preferences of others? How am I supposed to know how other people like it? There are three other people here. What if I cook it in a way that only one or two others enjoy? Does that make me a bad host? Or is it impossible to guess how others enjoy things and you just do your best? Is this subjective or objective? Are the darker bits the more or less cooked parts? Let’s have a taste of one. Hmm, is that what bitter tastes like? I’ve forgotten what a bitter taste is. I think I enjoy it, but it has a certain aftertaste. I’m pretty sure I like that aftertaste, but is that just because I’m stoned? What if others don’t like it? Does that mean I’m being shitty to them? How am I even supposed to know this? Would I understand better if I wasn’t stoned? Do I normally automatically know all of this stuff? Why am I thinking so hard about something that shouldn’t be challenging?

That was maybe a minute of internal dialogue.

The rest of the night was just as much of a maze. I felt like I was in some dinner party disaster movie and this was my subplot. I kept saying things, but not understanding why I was saying them or how I gauged whether or not things were appropriate. All I knew was that I somehow had to make it through the evening without our guests knowing that I was stoned. I don’t know why that was such an issue, but I think it had something to do with this lofty sense of social decorum (when in reality if I just said “sorry folks, but I’m really stoned right now, so if I’m acting weird that’s it”, they would’ve most likely been receptive to that). I’m pretty sure I enjoyed myself and the evening went by without any major hitches. Still, even today I still feel a little unhinged. I’m still piecing together how my brain works. Like, at brunch this morning I ate grilled plantain and didn’t realise I was eating the skin too. I ate maybe half a plantain skin.

Maybe I’ll wait a while before smoking again.

Sometimes it takes a while to make things click. I can’t always blame dysfunctional websites.

I’m trying to buy tickets to an event, but I can’t. I know, I know, I can be inept at times, but I swear this isn’t totally my fault. The event is selling tickets through a larger site. In order to buy the tickets, I need to be a member. The fun part is, I am a member. I’ve bought tickets through them before. I just don’t know how. Every time I try to login, it tells me that my password is incorrect. When I click the “forgot password” box, it tells me it’s sent an email to sort it out. I’ve been checking all my email folders, but I haven’t gotten this email. So I can’t reset the password and can’t buy tickets. I swear I’ve bought tickets within the past year. How the hell did I do it last time? At this rate I’m gonna have to make a new account with my work email.

….

Okay, everything’s fine I’m just an idiot.

That’s such a peculiar sensation. You’re trying to think of what to do and you think how would past me have acted? Then you try something and it turns out that’s exactly how past you would’ve reacted. There’s a smugness to it. There’s a comfort in knowing that fundamentally we don’t all change that much. Also I guess it’s neat to still be able to surprise yourself. When it happens to me, I can’t help but feel a little proud that I managed to figure myself out. As ludicrous as that sounds. Like I have this fear of growing in such different directions that I’ll no longer recognise my past thought patterns. I of course want to shift and develop in myriad ways, but I don’t want that at the behest of forgetting where I’ve come from.

At times it seems like we’re all taking in so much information that a ton gets lost in the shuffle. As time passes, we go through so many experiences that it’s a marvel we remember as much as we do. I used to think it was silly how people always talked about young minds being spongey. I was a teen and I still had a damn good memory. I’d commit lines from plays without trying. Memorise vast amounts of information from video games with the capacity to recite it from memory. Even in university I could still pull theorists’ quotes from my arse without much effort. Information landed in my brain and stuck there. Maybe it’s a case of rose-tinted reality, but in my current recollections, my past was flush with the ability to recall all the more vividly.

Now when I give anecdotes, I need to be a lot more intentional when it comes to having specifics in place. You know that feeling when your mind is reaching for a name or word? So often those names or words were within my brain’s arm’s reach. Now it’s usually the case that I need to stretch or strain to grab hold of them. Otherwise my anecdotes are a string of “what’s its name?” And “you know, the thing?” “I can’t remember the line exactly, but trust me, it was really funny.” Consequently, while I have more stories and life experiences to share now, I share fewer of them. Not having the details you want is pretty damn mortifying.

I’m sure most people have the experience of family members who repeatedly tell the same stories. Maybe this is why. I’m sure it’s partly having forgotten that they’d told the story, but it could also be an easy way of sharing an experience and getting recognition. It sucks scrambling for information that you feel should be on hand. Losing awareness of your memories must feel almost dehumanising, as if your past is being erased. If you can’t remember events in your life, how do you gauge their personal value? Dark, but inevitable.

I don’t know how much I feel like delving into this right now. I logged in. I purchased the tickets​. Now all that’s left is to have an experience profound enough that it’ll give me stories worth boring family and friends with for years to come.

Am I a tough crowd? Or a robot?

So this was written late at night while I was exhausted. At the time I thought it was terrible. In retrospect, I still think it’s terrible.

In an attempt to be relevant with at least one show that’s current, I started on BoJack Horseman season three. You know what? I don’t actually find the show to be funny. It’s a weird stance, but I recognise there’s humour in it, it’s just not humour that gets a rise out of me. It’s bizarre, because on paper a cartoon filled with anthropomorphic characters and puns seems like it’d drill straight into my funny bone. It practically leaks pop culture references. It’s also crammed with a ludicrous amount of talent. Seriously, just look at this list. Absurd, right? Now I’m not saying I don’t enjoy the show, just that the humour doesn’t appeal to me. I feel like a ton of it either falls flat in my eyes or feels random for random’s sake. I’m quite sure that hordes of people think it’s hilarious and I’m not here to argue with them. Each to their own and all that.

So why is it that I enjoy the show? Oddly enough, for a comedy, it’s the drama that reels me in. That doesn’t quite do it justice. The show is very well written. It builds its characters out and gives them heaps of developmental moments or chances for redemption. See, half the cast of characters are varying degrees of terrible people (animals, mostly). They’re flawed and broken, bringing out both the worst and best in one another. Between the levity (even if not in my case), there are deep lines that land with gravity. The oft quoted “You know, it’s funny; when you look at someone through rose-coloured glasses, all the red flags just look like flags” line rings poignant. There’s a weight to that and other lines of its ilk that carry an undeniable truth. Even when the show takes absurd turns, it doesn’t retreat from them. Actions have consequences and in this world, they’re all too real. Hell, two characters in a ludicrous marriage are actually following through with therapy, dealing with their inability to communicate their needs in a vulnerable fashion. It’d be all too easy for the show to make them break up, then move on, but it refuses to.

Obviously, I’m gonna keep watching. As someone who’s still not even into the heart of this season yet, I feel like there’s still rock bottom left to explore. How would that not sound enticing?

Proving that yes, it is possible to feel this way dressed in a Snorlax kigurumi.

December and January were big months for activity. Holidays meant parties and festivities oozing out of every spare evening. Food and drink revolved around the “use sparingly” portion of the food pyramid. Consequently joy was everywhere. It was a great time to alive, to celebrate and surround yourself with loved ones both romantic and platonic. I did. Oh, did I ever? Yes. OH yes.

February on the other hand has heralded a crash back down to terra firma for me. I’ve cut alcohol in an attempt to reorder my food pyramid and in general let my body breathe. I’m not getting preachy, you do you. I’m just here doing me. I’ve done the teetotaller thing before many times and it’s very doable. In all honesty though, it’s never fun. In some cases the downward trend of “never fun” keeps drilling down until my mood feels six feet under. If I’m not careful I get riddled with all sorts of self-loathing, negativity and withdraw into myself. Is it just a subconscious attempt to keep the URL of this page relevant? My inner social media specialist slamming putting the brand awareness pedal to the floor?

Example time.

I had a party to go to last night. A house warming party of some good friends. The kind of place crammed wall to wall with the kind of people I love being around. Neither my girlfriend nor I were drinking, but that’s fine. I’m a social guy and I like shooting the shit with friends or strangers. I got there and glommed onto some friends I hadn’t seen in a while. There was a truth or dare-ish game going on in the lounge, but I kept my distance. There’s nothing wrong with the game, but it’s not something I can handle sober. Truth or dare grabs all of my insecurities tied to self-confidence and cranks them up to 11. I feel like I have to perform in a certain fashion and no matter how I do I always feel a kind of tension, as if people are waiting for me to fuck up so they can laugh at rather than with me. If anything flirtatious comes up, I withdraw or deflect. It brings me right back to my teenage years of feeling unwanted and clumsy. Playing the fool to compensate for the fact that nobody had any real romantic or sexual interest. I mean, it’s easy to see how much of it was self-fulfilling prophecy. I didn’t see myself as an entity deserving of desire, so I acted in a congruent manner. If I didn’t believe it, I wouldn’t let anyone else either. I wish that I could say all of that has vanished into the path and I’ve owned feelings of self-worth and sexual capital, but I prefer honesty. At the age of 29, I can handle this kind of thing with tipsy relaxation. Last night though? I stayed away, my girlfriend jumped in and I kept to the fringes of the room seeking quiet conversation.

The place was crowded, it was noisy and I was having trouble concentrating. Without alcohol to dull my senses, I was listening to multiple conversations simultaneously, which left me paralytic. It was an effort to string together coherent sentences and everything I said felt stupid or lame. I couldn’t keep up with friends on that amped wavelength whose attention spans spurned conversations longer than several minutes. I felt so small and my body language reflected this. I now see that I continually sought out tiny spaces to cram myself into. The corner of a kitchen bench, the small alcove in front of the rubbish bin next to the filing cabinet, the railing next to the stairs. Places that would give me a wide outlook so I could prepare for anyone entering my personal space. It was a subconscious defensive move and I didn’t realise what I was doing until I’d left.

The front of the room got rowdier as the game picked up. Lots of nudity, body shots, flirtatious behaviour. I’m not shitting on anything that happened, it was all in good fun. In my state at the time though, it only served to make me feel more alienated, distanced. A mixture of jealousy and helplessness at my inability to let go and relax, to have fun in a space intended for just that purpose. My muscles tightened and I found myself speaking less and less. I was upset, but found myself incapable of saying anything. Something inside of me said it was unfair to make my problems anyone else’s. It wasn’t fair to inhibit anyone’s fun because I was feeling shitty. What right did I have to bring others down with me? Of course I couldn’t act or speak out in a shared public space, this was my issue and I had to solve it. At the time, I didn’t have the wherewithal, so negative thoughts coalesced into a dense, deep mass around my brain. I felt worse and worse, compounded by the overwhelmingly happy crowd surrounding me. If everyone else was fine, what was wrong with me that I couldn’t get on their level?

I needed to leave, but my girlfriend was having a great time. Who was I to get in her way? The happier she was, the more of a divide I felt. Logically, of course she couldn’t have known how I was feeling. Emotion doesn’t play by those same rules though, so instead I felt isolated. The smart thing would’ve been to tap her on the shoulder, to have a word and explain how I was feeling. Instead of using my brain, I stewed in everything and felt deflated, void of anything useful. Instead of making my needs known, I waited for perhaps another hour and a half while I felt utterly miserable. I wanted to either be somewhere else, alone, or just not “be” at all. At some point I couldn’t take any more. I apologised for interrupting my girlfriend’s conversation and quietly told her that I needed to get out of there quickly. I called an Uber and pulled a French exit, incapable of mustering up the fake enthusiasm I’d need for farewells. We got the fuck out of there barely saying a word.

We got home and I unpacked a bunch, describing how and why the night had took a turn. This morning I unpacked a bunch more. She listened, helped me through as much as we could and I felt a little better. In the wake of now though the emptiness has returned. Putting my feelings on a page hasn’t helped. The logical part of my brain knows exactly what happened, but that does little to help. I still feel miserable and no matter what I watch, play or read my mood isn’t shifting. I just want to find whatever light exists at the end of this, which is my mind seeking some kind of escapism. It makes me want to drink, or find an alternate way to get out of my head. I want release that puts me out of myself, that lets me relax and pretend I’m somebody that seems so far from where I’m at. My mind is looking for something to treat the symptoms and forget the disease exists.

You know what? Drinking would work. 100%. I’d find enthusiasm for things outside of myself and actually want to be around people. I’d have a great fucking time and be able to put this shit behind me until it reared its head some time in the future. I’d have to wrest with the recognition that I said I’d do something (not drink for a month) and failed to deliver, but we humans have this amazing ability to justify anything we do if it made us feel better. Hell, drinking would’ve made last night fine, but how am I supposed to feel about that? How do I deal with my inability to connect in an active social space sans liquor? Alcohol is not some fantastic elixir I can use medically. Conversely, stewing in negativity does nothing for me either. I don’t know what to do. I don’t even know how to finish this paragraph. I might as well lean into this resurgence of teen angst and listen to No Children on repeat with the lights off.

Disseminating wrong in Formation.

Right wing pundits trawling for traffic by claiming that Beyonce’s Superbowl half time performance was racist are absurd. No, I’m not gonna link to them and give them traffic. Googling “Beyonce Superbowl racist” will give you everything you need. I’m not doing their dirty work for them. It’s amazing that they managed to bring up the lack of racial diversity (e.g. no white women) in her homage to the Black Panther movement. Sorry dickheads, but your attempt at finding reverse racism is fucking ridiculous and you should feel bad about yourselves. You’re tools, taking advantage of people who don’t understand insidious societal concepts like privilege and inequality. It’s not their fault, they’re hard concepts to grasp. Being in a position of influence, perhaps you should think twice before committing so strongly to cheap tactics. Are you really so unsure of your dominant foundations that you have to shit on attempts to reignite progressive cultural discussion? You are a joke and it saddens me that people are gullible enough to listen to you.

Me? I know that nobody really listens to me. Or at least I’d hope they wouldn’t after the many times I’ve described my bowel movements. Any influence I have should be limited to my topics of expertise, which is basically only myself. I’m an authority on me, but little else. I should be. I’ve spent the most time around me out of anyone in the world. I’m not gonna claim to know everything about myself, but most things. Actually, one of my favourite things is when I’m trying to figure out where Past Me would’ve put something or what kind of password Past Me would’ve set. I think to myself how would I have responded to this situation? Then I proceed to do the thing I would’ve likely done in the situation! It sounds ridiculous, but being able to work out how I function really does make me feel positively about myself.

I mean, think of the alternative. If I tried to put myself into Past Me’s frame of mind and failed, would I really know myself? What if I tried time and time again, but just couldn’t work out my mental process? I’d start to feel weird, absent from myself. I’d feel displaced, as if I was losing track of who I was. Of course we all change, but to evolve so much as to become unrecognisable to yourself? That’s a chilling thought. Honestly, that kind of mental divergence terrifies me to my core. At the end of each day the one thing I’m assured of is that I am me. I take comfort in being able to trust my own thoughts and sense of logic. If that disappeared, my confidence would be shattered.

It’s why I’m so sympathetic to mental illness of all kinds. Through no personal fault, without even having oppressive societal structures to blame, so many of us have reason to doubt ourselves. Because of internal chemistry. Because of traumatic experiences. Because of tragic biological incompatibilities. It’s distressing that this is something that could be within us already, something that people around us suffer from and we never even know their struggles. For all I know it’s waiting in my future. It could even be a part of my life now without realising it. It’s almost paralysing to think of the huge effect it has and how little we can do to mitigate it, how little we still know. It’s awful, but it’s real. For many of us it’s a huge part of our reality. If there’s anything that could make you feel helpless, not having faith in your mind is right up there.

Still, if you think Beyonce’s Superbowl half time performance was racist, you’ve got no excuse.

Desperately seeking om-niscience.

If you’ve read at least one of these entries, you’d agree that my mind has trouble staying rooted in one place. I could start a paragraph with some vague exposition and, by the time that closing full stop rolls around, end it arguing with the moral compass of puppets. I’m aware that this has become a defining character trait, my mind creating strange associations almost as a sport. That doesn’t mean it’s always a handy habit to have. While it can be useful at times to approach situations with a different perspective (honed by vast introspective travel), it’s not useful when I’m trying to knuckle down and focus. Ever wondered why I write about something new every day? Why I settle for half an hour of stream of consciousness? Partly it’s fear. I’m afraid that if I push myself to keep my mind in a steady groove I’ll lose the ability to freely associate. I’m afraid I’ll be reneging on something that I feel is a fundamental part of the way I operate. I’m afraid that by standing strong and rebelling against my natural instinct to scatter, putting effort into work will result in low quality material that will disappoint me. If I put effort into something and it’s terrible, then by association I’m terrible. On the contrary, if I never try to focus I’ll never fail, because I never will have tried very hard in the first place. I’m sure Yoda would tell me to do or do not, to shove try waaaaay up my sphincter, but Yoda is a) a puppet and b) a fictional character. As such, he happened to be written and puppeteered with the gumption and conviction I lack.

Maybe the grammarily liberal puppet is right though. Perhaps I need to approach this issue with force. Or at least, The Force. In order to harness the light inside of me, I need to focus and find a place of calm. A place where I’m untainted by the world around me and the pop-cultural maelstrom in my brain.

I guess I could’ve skipped all the preamble and just said I tried meditating yesterday, but we’re taking baby steps here.

After finally clicking send on the email that’d spent months in incubation, I was a little bit wound up. Not getting a response made my head spin. The reasonable, logical part of my brain was compiling a list of valid reasons why he hadn’t replied, while my emotional core was puking over the side of a mental tilt-a-whirl. I got home, wrote and rapidly got tired of my own shit. For ages now friends have told me that despite the inherent woo woo connotations, meditation had helped them hugely. It’s something I’ve been wanting to try, but I think of the calm cognitive serenity it entails and run screaming. No word of a lie, the idea of relaxing makes me tense. This is coming from a person who hates sleeping because it feels like a waste of time that could be spent doing something active. I’m afraid of being alone with my thoughts without some kind of conduit to put them into. I need a distraction, be it something to watch, read or listen to. I stress myself out.

I looked into meditation. How does one meditate? What are the optimal conditions? Hints and tips for success? Is there a way to game the system and jump straight to enlightenment? Does IDDQD work in this game? By the time I was ready to start learning how to do nothing, I realised I had 14 tabs open all rife with instruction. This is the problem, I thought, how am I supposed to calm down if I’m trying so hard to get everything perfect?

I closed the tabs. I opened Youtube, searched “meditation 20 minutes” and clicked on the first link.

I sat upright, legs folded and closed my eyes. I began to breathe with a certain rhythm. I inhaled slowly, held it for a second and exhaled gradually. I tried to feel each part of my body, starting from my toes. I rushed, at first, then chastised myself for speeding through things. I had 20 minutes after all. I started to think about other things I could do with 20 minutes. I could’ve been watching Brooklyn 99 or refreshed my Facebook wall 86 times. Stop thinking about things I told myself you’re meant to be thinking about not thinking. Wait, don’t think about that!

It was relentless. I must’ve thought about bagels at least 12 times. I lay on my back in case that would help. I started from my toes again, feeling their inactivity. With each inhalation I’d think about my area of focus, then as I exhaled, felt that area. I moved up the body and stopped fighting wherever my mind would go. It was noisy, but it was background noise. It would barge into my consciousness and slowly leave. This went on for a while and each time I tried my best to keep breathing, to go deeper.

I noticed that while I had some success with accessing a blank, muted space, I was still conscious of where I was. In the forefront of my mind I saw very little, while ghosted images of myself lying atop my bed scrolled like a screensaver though the background. Hey brain, I whispered into the aether, do you realise it takes more effort to imagine what I look like while I’m lying doing nothing than it does to not imagine anything?

[A pause]

I held onto that pause. Waited. Soaked in the radio silence. Chimes sounded. The clip was ending. My 20 minutes were done.

I’m not gonna claim I found any greater meaning. I can’t move objects with my mind while doing a one handed handstand. I have no doubts (refreshing, given the site name) however that I was in a calmer mood. For my first time meditating, things weren’t calamitous. My brain didn’t implode and it certainly didn’t cease functioning. I haven’t changed and Earth is still revolving on its axis.

Whatever my goal, whatever Yoda says, this is a try in my books.

My mind just whispered his name.

My friend was talking about a movie the other day. It was a heist or crime movie her partner had shown her. “It had that musician guy acting in it.” She said. That musician guy? Which musician guy? My mind immediately had an answer.. “Was it Harry Connick Jr?” I asked. Of course it wouldn’t be Harry Connick Jr. Why in fuck’s name would it be Harry Connick Jr? First off, he’s not a notable enough name to be memorable. Secondly he’s been in very few movies (scratch that, way more than I thought). Unless she had misconstrued The Iron Giant as a crime/heist movie, the chances of Harry Connick Jr being involved were slim to none. Still, my mind has an aptitude for making pretty strong pop cultural synaptic connections. Was it really so off base to imagine that this random 80s crime/heist film would just so happen to feature potential son of Harry Connick Sr, Harry Connick Jr in a notable, if not prominent role? “What? No. Who the fuck is Harry Connick Jr?” She responded.

Turns out it wasn’t Harry Connick Jr, folks. My brain was fucking with me. It does that from time to time and it feels kind of pointed. Intentional. Like it’s getting back at me for all the mindless white noise I make it sit through. The endless internet browsing, pointing, clicking for unblinking hours. My mind craves puzzles and challenges in order to work its mind muscles and I give it naught.

I feel shitty about how little I read. I feel even shittier about how little I read when it reflects in poor Scrabble games. So I had a friend over a few weeks back and she was literally beating me in her sleep. Scenario: She’d brought her Travel Scrabble and laid it out on the bed. Things started out lively enough. She got 30 or so points off her first word. I countered by claiming a triple letter score off a Q to get a decent 35 points or so. She turned my word “Quest” into “Quests” horizontally and “Rusting” vertically off a double word score. Strike up a cool 80 points from her. From that point I begun to take things a little more seriously. Watched out for potential ins where she could hang word. I played defensively and the more effort I took cultivating my board position, the longer my turns took. Soon enough 5 minute turns took 10, 20 minutes. It was late, so she just snoozed between rounds. I’d take 20 minutes to find a mediocre word while she slept, then I’d rustle her. She’d come to, gaze at her tiles then place a few down in a mere minute. She’d consistently double my previous round’s score with one or two tiles, then go back to sleep. My mind was lagging. I had a turn take 40 minutes out of fear of turning in a sub par word. I ended up throwing in the towel, giving up and joining her in bed. She was the master, she was the Harry Connick Sr.

I was merely the Harry Connick Jr.