Crazy Stupid Ice Cream, for Actors

Ingredients

• 9 episodes of "Unbreakable Kimmy Schmidt" in 1 sitting
• $420 spent on 2 acting classes
• 40 7th-grade girls in a musical about a 24-year-old half fairy man-- fairy above the waist and mortal from the waist down-- whose highly desirable shepherdess girlfriend catches him kissing his fairy mother who looks like she's 17
• Starting Improv 201 the day after you finish Improv 101
• Deciding to watch "The Last 5 Years" right before you leave on a first date
• The sentence "I've started watching a bunch of TV, though, and that's been fun." in response to someone asking what is new in your life

Instructions

The sexual undertones in a story about a man who is fairy from the waist up, mortal from the waist down, who is accused of cheating on his fiancee with a much younger woman whom he claims to be his mother are STRONG. I love drama teachers who have such confidence in their student actors. Only in an esteemed all-girl private school in New York City, am I right?

Watching my not-so-little-anymore 12-year-old friend (slash child I used to babysit), while sitting next to my super supportive, ultra sophisticated late-30's friend (slash her mother and my ex-boss), laughing at this rarely produced Gilbert and Sullivan musical performed by girls cross dressing with commitment and singing their hearts out about subject matters beyond their years, I was... I was... 

Hmm, you're waiting for me to say "inspired," aren't you? See, I was so happy watching them: fully entertained, engaged, appreciating their comedic interpretations along with their naive ignorance of the play's wry political wit. However, after I hugged my favorite cross dresser goodbye, leaving her with her new fan club (she played the male half-fairy lead and murdered that Upper East Side auditorium), chatty hyper girlfriends, and sincerely adoring parents, I walked down Lexington Ave. with a sudden stupid sadness. I'd spent less than 2 short hours in a bubble: I was with a real family who introduced me to their parent-friends as a part of that family; I partook in an elite Park Ave. community, with women in pearls and children in Ralph Lauren; I was surrounded by beaming (& the usual few bored) parents and their giggling gangly children with their wiggling wangly friends, hugging and smiling and begging to walk home alone after the cast party. But when I stepped through that utopian school door, I was me again. I was the 23-year-old who, before getting on the train, stops at CVS to buy a quart of sugar-free slow churned vanilla ice cream because I know it's on sale and that quart will accompany me back to my empty apartment like the boyfriend I don't have. 

It's not about the boyfriend, sheesh! Good goodness, I miss my family! Or do I miss being a kid? Or do I miss school, structure, guaranteed productions? Folks congratulating me on my portrayal of a boring ingenue or my handbell solo? Or do I just want to cross dress and sing Gilbert & Sullivan?

You know, probs all of the above. I think I'm going insane. This is the longest I've ever been in NYC without leaving, and let me tell you, I cannot stand STILL anymore. You want to know how long it's been? 3.5 months. 

Exactly, Emma. It's not long. At all. But I'm a baby! I fly for free! I live an hour-and-a-half flight away in Ohio where all the Midwestern families grow-- plus I was on tour for 3.5 months last year, plus I had my broken-foot-homestay last summer, plus I took trips to Costa Rica and South Carolina. I don't stay here, that's not my thing. So, yes, I'm getting antsy over here. Though I fly for free, my financial "situation" doesn't allow for me to simply jet pack around the world, missing work and begging my fellow broke actor friends to join me. No, no, when I have the courage and religious reasoning to ask for a few days off of work, where am I headed?

Amherst, Ohio, baby.

Too many people get down on me for not taking advantage of my free standby flying privileges, and-- trust me-- I get it. I should fly to Spain tomorrow because it's my day off, I've never been there, and that's exactly how this works. But when Easter knocks on my door, there's nowhere I'd rather be than the Sandstone Capital of the World. 

Any other time, though?... I know that, as excited as I am to go home, I will miss New York all too quickly once I'm back in that suburb of a suburb. Though I clearly miss my family, as shown in the solace found in a CVS ice cream sale, I do not want to spend quality time in Ohio. That's right, just like Anna Kendrick's character Cathy in the new movie/old musical "The Last 5 Years." As a wee tot of 15, I used to belt those lyrics, "I'll get on my knees, and pray I can state in my next bio, 'I'm never gonna go back to Ohio!'" in the shower like I was someone who knew how to belt. 

Please, by ALL means, bring my family to me or wherever I may travel to! Just not Ohio. As I reminded when I was crippled and confined in my mother's living room for a month this summer, I left Ohio for a reason. That's right, just like Anna Kendrick's character Cathy sings in the movie you can rent instantly on Amazon Prime, "When we get to my house, take a look at that town, take a look at far I've gone-- I will never go back, never look back anymore."

This insane, antsy feeling I have has more to do with wanting to flee the city. For those of us who haven't reached their goal here in the Big Apple-- or Chi-Town (as no one calls it) or the City of Angels-- and reach instead for all the improv classes and ice cream deals this city has to offer, those lyrics HIT us in the FEELS. A lot of actors have escaped their hometowns or homestates for anywhere else. Though we complain about our shitty rent and how often the 7 train shuts down, we are so grateful to smell the shit. Call us masochists or idiots... both are true.

So what if watching TV has become my new favorite pastime? It's for my career! What's it to you if I use Forever 21 as my personal auditions closet because their only return policy is store credit? "Baggy clothes" and "Peter Pan sweater set" auditions deem it necessary! To the outside world, actors are crazy. I never find these things weird until someone else judges them, though; I am proud to work night shifts for my Forever 21 Closet cash. I deem to no longer fill other voids of my life (social, romantic, escapism) when what's actually missing is the crux of why I'm here: a job that I want. The other day, it hit me: Reflecting on Saturday night's solo date with Netflix, I asked myself, "Ugh, Anna, if you had a boyfriend, would that solve the current stage of the 'New York City Lost' drudge you're in? Would it?" NO. No? No. NO! It wouldn't! But what would?

Boom. Acting.

Thanks, Ryan. But it's true, no matter how corny it sounds: I'm not going to be satisfied until I'm doing what I have dedicated my short life to doing. (Am I talking about my height, or not?) I can escape home or even to Spain all I want, but the real adventure I'm looking for is in my career. Which brings me one step closer to being in a movie with you, Ryan. You're welcome, Ryan.

So, sure: I may blubber alone on my futon at 4pm on a Wednesday while watching a little movie called "The Last 5 Years" (you may have heard of it); I may hold back a sniffle in a CVS after leaving the joy of other families; and I may be staying afloat solely due to my large tax return, because I spend all that's not rent on improv and acting classes. BUT: I got to play a sassy murdered prostitute living inside the head of a troubled detective this past Saturday. Because that's the character a casting director assigned me for our class. No innocent teenager or quiet ingenue... A complex dead whore. New York City, we're movin' on up. See you soon, Ryan and Anna K. 

Love,
Crazy Stupid Love

The movie.

Those GIFs. Are from the movie. 

PS: That's Movie #2 I'm forcing you to watch for full completion of this recipe, as well as all 13 episodes of "Unbreakable Kimmy Schmidt."

*Note: TL5Y should only be watched by yourself in the comfort of your own home, and finish the whole Kimmy season before deciding whether or not to tell the whole world that it's outright offensive. THERE GOES YOUR WEEKEND. 

REM & Coke: Lime Wedge and Pillow Optional

Ingredients

• 1 NYC restaurant host
• Crap damaged hypocretin
• A Lenten bedtime
• National Sleep Awareness Week!

Instructions

If... 

Please excuse me while I drop my head back and gape my mouth open for five minutes. 

Sorry about that. Now, what do these ingred...

Please excuse me while I consciously subject myself to a predictably open-ended and regrettable supine break atop my made bed. 

Oh, shit. Is that... what is that buzzing? Did something bad happen-- it's always something bad, isn't it?! Buzzing, ringing, vibrating... Ah, my phone! Alarm? Agh, what time is it? Is it time to wake up, or is my phone doing something else? What else do phones do?! PHONE CALL. My phone is ringing, I should reach for it, yes, it says a name-- my roommate's. Oh! Answer it, Anna!

"Hello?"

(What I mean to and think I sound like:

What I actually sound like:

 )

My roommate says something about me letting her into the apartment. I grumble something in regards to "yes," pull the phone away from my ear to realize where and when I am in time, and then make an unclearly motivated return to the phone to repeat my "yes." I ghost walk through the hallway to the front door, fumble with the lock, and, just as I swing open the door, gain alertness. No need to apologize, roommate! You saved me from a ~three-hour uncomfortable, unrestful, lights-on collapse. So, thank you. Thank you for waking me up.

... I'm not being sarcastic. Seriously! I don't even know how to be funny (or any civilized, socially appropriate adjective) when I'm in that weird state of sleepy, so it would be really impressive if I were being sarcastic. I have about three basic emotions in my wheelhouse while narcolepting: thankful, pained, angry. Mix 'em together and it's a solid languish. 

(By the way, this actually happened in real time whilst writing this article. That's some real life reporting. I'll take my Pulitzer now.)

While my roommate-- let's call her "Cascade", as I've had two people mishear her name for that, and now I really want that to be someone's name-- happens to be wonderfully understanding of my narcolepsy and its accompanying unintended aggression, not everyone easily accepts my extreme personality changes. 

Cue: Year 2 of Knowing You Have Narcolepsy:

2:30pm: I get to work at the restaurant. 
2:40pm: A manager asks if I'm OK. He half-jokes that it's less about looking pleasant in front of customers and more about being pleasant around those I'm working with. 
3:00pm: The maitre'd asks if I'm OK. She says I'm not my normal self-- all because I didn't say "hello" to her first when she came in, like I usually do. Do I always have to be June Cleaver over here?! I'm fine. 
3:30pm - 4:15pm: ... I begin to think my manager and maitre'd may be right. How did they notice it before me? What is it?
4:30pm: Mid-stuffing a dinner menu, I freeze. DAMN IT. I forgot to take my Modafinil stimulant this morning! How on earth?! I never forget! Whatever; June will have to power through.
5:00pm - 5:30pm: Dinner starts. I am pushing, not powering. I mention to my maitre'd that I realize I forgot to take my medication. She laughs.
6:00pm - 8:00pm: I gradually lose focus and stop talking. My typically energetic Cleaver-ful walk slows to something of a death march. My fellow hosts notice, of course. One is not happy, while the other asks questions about narcolepsy. Eventually, I am in my own little world.  
8:00pm: The closing manager says he'll be keeping me later and "you're OK with that?" I am not OK and I am not OK with that, but I couldn't even look at him. "Of course you're OK with that," and he walks off.
8:45pm: The maitre'd checks in with the other hosts to see if they can handle coat check on their own. Non-Understanding Host makes sure to let her know that they definitely still need me.
9:00pm - 9:35pm: I am slurring my words. I lose the ability to walk straight and have to support myself by leaning on the podium. After I slowly amble back from a trip to coat check, with all three watching, the maitre'd smiles and asks me if I'd like to leave. "THANK YOU" streams like tears from my mouth, but she follows with a teasing, "Next time, remember to take your medication," and a little laugh. All I can muster is, "Hey, this is much less fun for me as it is for you."
9:36: I am sent away with a "Feel better!" and drunkenly descend the stairs to the basement. How funny would it be if they found me sleeping in the locker room hours from now, I thought, actually considering it for a second. Then they'd know. 

Why this story? Why is this significant in Year 2 of Knowing You Have Narcolepsy? For the first time, I felt embarrassed. For the first time, my narcolepsy made me want to cry. For the first time, I felt it publicly, actively, and visibly affect my work performance-- for a job not at a desk! And I felt like, for certainly not the first time but the first known to me, no one cared.

Over the 4.5 hours of dinner service that night, I never once spoke with my manager about it. I'd only told one of my four managers that I even have narcolepsy-- what was I supposed to do, walk up to another one in the middle of service and say, "Hi, I have narcolepsy and right now I'm fighting an rarely extreme attack. May I please go home and sleep?" I was trapped. And how could they care, really, without knowing what narcolepsy is? These are good people I work with. Everyone in the restaurant business is tired-- we all haven't sat down in 7+ hours! 

Plus, in our Host Meeting the week before, we'd been told to not ask when your shift is over. And I always follow the rules.

At first, I thought this said "Superhuman." Hit me in the feels.

I am a good employee, (typically) motivated, kind, bubbly-- that's why they noticed June's change in demeanor in the first place. Yet, I felt like 2 out of the 3 people who knew what was going on thought I was acting like a baby. I adore my fellow employees, and still do, so I thought perhaps this was all in my head. However, the next day I greeted the maitre'd and she responded with: "I'm glad to see you're in a much better mood."

PEOPLE. People of the free world who have high school degrees or college degrees or advanced college degrees: narcolepsy is not a MOOD. Narcolepting (a phrase I feel no one else uses in the narcolepsy community, and so I'm just gonna say that I made it up) is not like waking up on the wrong side of the bed; I'm always on the wrong side of the bed. It's not like PMS; people understand PMS. It's not like being hangry; food and planning will not cure it (no matter how hard I try). Actually, it is somewhat like all of these things combined, in different ways, but at the end of the day it is an uncontrollable, unavoidable state, ready to attack at any time. It's not caused by any sort of personal flaw but rather one's brain's lack of hypocretin.

Hypo-WHAT now? This shit got cray. 

Hypocretin is a boss chemical in your noggin that regulates wakefulness, REM sleep, and other dope things like appetite and happiness. Those of us with narcolepsy largely lack it, which is cool because it gives us something to blame weight gain on and not cool because of everything else. Here, I happen to know a lot about the subject, so let me help explain it to you better:

I'm kidding, I have no idea what that means. This is all I understand:

So, yeah, folks: narcolepsy is an autoimmune neurological disorder that affects chemicals in the brain. Genetics. Science. Facts. My bad mood is not my fault. 

If what you're thinking is that I think I've found a way to blame weight gain, fatigue, and bitchiness on a tiny little chemical out of my control... then you're right. 

Oh, shucks, I can't lie to you: I still struggle to accept that I shouldn't and can't compare myself to others without narcolepsy. I still walk a fine line between motivating myself to "make a better me" and pushing myself too far. I still beat myself up. Not literally. What if I did mean literally? Would you call the cops? 

Anyways, Year 2 of Knowing You Have Narcolepsy is all about the struggle: figuring out the ying-yang between laziness and acceptance; dedicated perseverance and unrealistic goals; blame and, well, blame. How much can I blame on my narcolepsy/my lack of hypocretin cells? I'm learning to adopt all of the "lifestyle remedies" so I can blame everything that's left on my disorder. No, really, stay with me: honestly: that was poor wording: lemme try again: for example, my Lenten promise this year is regulating my sleep schedule, which I should've been doing all along. I force myself to sleep 8 hours a night, 12am-8am. I've also Lentenly promised to eat healthier and practice yoga every day. So NOW what, narcolepsy?! It's all on you. 

What parts of my fatigue are due to me and me alone? I have no freaking clue, but I have a frickin' clue, which is a lot more than the clue I had last year and the mystery I had before then. In the past year, I've met people with narcolepsy in Central Park, walked for the Narcolepsy Network in Battery Park, submitted a personal essay on narcolepsy as a writing sample to a publisher, told managers and too many first dates I have narcolepsy, met the Julie Flygare, and learned that narcolepsy is an autoimmune disorder! And that info is what changes everything. It helps recipients of this:

become recipients of this:

Autoimmune-screwed hypocretins bring me one sweet step closer to understanding what the freaking frick is up with my mind and body. Seeing as it can take some people as long as 10-15 years to even be diagnosed after symptoms appear, I don't take my sweet step lightly. I STOMP, y'all. 

In closing, in honor of National Sleep Awareness Week and Suddenly Sleep Saturday, in memoriam for all of the sleep we've all lost all those unnecessary times: take sleep seriously!

Wasabi Polish Doughnuts (For Weirdos Only)

Ingredients

• 1 Umami Burger server 
• $500 Valentine's Day menu (per person)
• "The three baddest horn section in Brooklyn", an Elton John-type songwriter, Maxway/Roses Wholesale Clothes, and making more money than your parents
• 7 phone numbers given out + 5 first dates in 3 months
• 1 search for a paczki

Instructions

1. Your Umami Burger server must be: the newest arrival at your friends' brunch get-together, a fellow actor and Astorian a few years older than you, and of the type that, upon seeing his face, you know you "know" each other. After twenty minutes of painstaking "do you know...? have you been to...?", look on Facebook for mutual friends and instead find that he is an Umami Burger server-- and that he therefore served you on your first ever Hinge date. You remember because he made such a friendly impression! He remembers because you requested to have no wasabi on the burger that clearly "needs" wasabi, so they left it on.

2. You can find cheaper options for Valentine's Day, but I highly suggest Atera, which costs more than Masa, America's "priciest restaurant." Why be cheap, with such crapola restaurants like Jean George, Eleven Madison, or Masa at costs of $258- $450/person, on a day primarily symbolized by plastic heart-shaped products sold at CVS?

3. When you have the idea to look online for freelance writer gigs, smartly delve into Craigslist. Next, and most key, accidentally forget to clarify "writer gigs" and instead search "all gigs." Locate the title "wheres the three baddest horn section in brooklyn!!!!!" and make sure they're looking for someone who "SHOWS SHOWMANSHIP AND DISCIPLINE AT TIMES....LOL (GOTTA HAVE A LIL FUN RIGHT?)". Search deeply for an "Elton John-type songwriter looking for his Bernie Taupin", specifically the one who clarifies, so necessarily: "Okay, so I'm not Elton John in the sense that I sing, but I do play piano and write songs that other people sing." Score gloriously when you see "ASAP $2 per photo of Maxway/ Roses Wholesale Clothes," in which all you have to do is take photos-- or samples-- of women's bottoms, particularly leggings, in Roses Wholesale Stores and Maxway Stores, but lose greatly when you learn the submission maximum is ten. Last but not least, to out-do your parents, read the words you've always wanted to hear: 

"it sucks beeing poor, you dont have to tell me I grew up with nothing and spent most of my life working like a slave for just enough money to pay the bills. 
If you are hot you dont have to do that. "

Because when I have nothing-- absolutely nothing-- going for me, the only possible motivation is knowing I could make more money than my parents. And the hope that I might be hot.

4. You must start dating, experience dating, and decided to end dating within 3 months. These phone numbers must be given out via any dating app/site. (No, at the end of the day, Hinge is sadly not much better than other dating apps/sites, because it is one.) These dates should be difficult to juggle. You should feel overwhelmed. You should put fun plans and important work aside to fit them into your schedule. You should learn that perhaps you shouldn't let on so easily how little money you have on the first date. You should decide that you don't f-ing care. You should come to the conclusion that you are spending too much time thinking about these potential dates that you don't even know, may not even like, and, with the current track record of such finance/business guys, will not want to see again. You should look forward to the final trickle-off of said dates, and hope that none of them ever text you again. You should celebrate your freedom from feeling that dating and going out is a necessary, integral part of your 20's. You should take advantage of the new time not spent using that app/texting a "match"/thinking about that date/going out for drinks and focus on your career, which is why you are in this goshforsaken city in the first place! You should finally admit to yourself that you are an old fashioned romantic traditionalist who likes quiet evenings at home, a bedtime, and her twin-sized bed because dammit it was cheaper and you have so much floor space for yoga. 

5. You must know what a paczki is. That is essential. You are a rare special human if you possess this ability. If you are Polish, you should know, or else. You should surround your Fat Tuesday, aka Paczki Day, with asking every person you see whether or not they know what a paczki is. You should express utter shock and disgust with the limited responses you elicit. You should spread the knowledge, love, joy, and beauty of pazkis with as many people as possible, and not feel ashamed at all when they find out that for real it's just a donut. You should spend so much time and energy into finding a paczki in NYC for Fat Tuesday and so much time building up the hype to everyone you have informed about it that you forget that the last time you had a paczki was... too long ago to remember. And that you cannot remember the last donut you ate, either. And that you shouldn't eat fried food because of what it and your severe acid reflux do to your stomach. Yet, when you find that one bakery open at 9pm in Greenpoint, Brooklyn, the only Polish community in NYC, you should devour that sweet, sweet 'nut in one bite. 

... So... now what? By now, you're used to recipes with ingredients and instructions that have at least something to do with each other. These are almost completely random. Actually, they're completely random. I did that on purpose, because that's how I'm feeling right now: arbitrary. (And not in a bad way.)

"Life is weird." This was a line in a recent audition of mine, and it was the truest, most natural thing I said and felt in the entire scene. Life is SO weird! How, the morning after a waste of time first date (with a Hinge-ite who called me a "Broadway Queen") on Valentine's Day, did I end up agreeing to walk 20 minutes on one of the coldest days yet this winter to my friend's apartment in Astoria for brunch, where a friend and I bonded voraciously over our trials of the seductive mind-trap that is Hinge and shared our stories with the group for far too long, only to be met by a new brunch acquaintance that I was told I would not know but actually did recognize because, thanks to knowledge from Facebook, I remembered he was my server on my first Hinge date ever! FULL CIRCLE BRUNCH! 

Life is weird because, after taking Burberry and Hugo Boss dress coats and seating their owners at white-clothed banquets for two in a gorgeous Michelin Star-rated dining room accompanied by a live romantic jazz pianist and violets for their $199 6-course tasting menu, I wake up to these Facebook photos from my father, step-mom, and their 2 best friends: 

One photo had the caption, "steak and lobster tail on bone china... who could ask for more." Who could ask for more?

Life is weird because THIS happens in my hometown and NO ONE knows about it: 

Honestly, I wish I could've found less photos that I felt I needed to include here, but that's how the Paczki Ball rolls. Every year at the same time (though sometimes I wonder if it's actually all year long), this billboard pops up in Lorain County, Ohio:

"The Original Paczki of Northeast Ohio: Kiedrowski's have been selling the Best Paczki in America for over 30 Years." "Kiedrowskis's Only Sell Old World Traditional Polish Flavors According to Grandma Kiedrowski." "We play Polka Music to our Paczki to Give them a made in America to Poland taste." Polish Catholics, or, as I still sometimes naively think, all Christians everywhere, eat paczkis on Fat Tuesday, the day before Lent. They're glorified donuts, but with cool filling flavors and cultural meaning. My first year beyond Northeast Ohio, I was mortified and offended when no one at my college in Chicago knew what a paczki was-- Chicago is the largest population of Polish people outside of Warsaw, for goodness' sake! By Lent, I was so emotionally disrupted that at one point, upon entering my room and seeing my suitemate's Polish-speaking Polish boyfriend, I immediately shouted "PACZKI!" at him, hoping to finally receive some understanding. Instead, he was merely confused at why I'd shouted "donut" at him. 6 years out of Ohio and I still have no relief.

The Paczki Ball is thrown by Kiedrowski's ever year: "Polkas! Party! Paczki!" The even is held right before Fat Tuesday, is "family friendly" and BYOB, includes a buffet dinner of sausage and sauerkraut, cabbage and noodles, potato and cheese pierogies, green beans with bacon, and ALL OF THE PACZKIS YOU CAN EAT. Not to mention the Presentation of the Paczki by those half-naked men and women and the crowning of the Paczki King and Queen.

Life is weird because I have new stupid, maddening, exciting, stressful, weird experiences every day. Because when I leave work at midnight, emerging from a hotel basement and breathing in a breath of "fresh" air, I get to walk down an eerily empty 5th Avenue and look up at the majestic columns and lions of the NYPL Main Branch and a few key skyscrapers that surround this refreshing clearing in the heart of the city, and feel a mix of shock and pride that I actually made it here. Because each night when I take the 7 train into Queens and descend the steps to Queens Boulevard, I see a lit skyline of Manhattan in the near distance, congratulating me on staying alive another day. Because of that fact that I do this every day-- that I recently end each day with a dramatic yet honest inner monologue, reflecting on my disbelief that I made it through that day and that, even though the weird stuff that day happened and that there are so many weirder things about to happen the next day, at that moment the city takes a breath, I take a breath, and we rest. 

I signed up to be a "mentor" (ha!) for one of this year's Northwestern NY Acting Showcase participants and she recently asked what I liked/didn't like about living in NYC as an actor. I'd been preparing myself to censor what I wrote in my email, expecting it to be too harsh or hateful. Instead, I shocked myself. I struggled to find a reason why I disliked NYC except for the fact that it is cold, ugly, and dirty, simply because I like warmth, nature, and cleanliness. I've finally accepted NYC for what it is. We have a strong love/hate/need relationship. I've finally accepted that I don't want to be a "typical" social single in her 20's, whatever that is even supposed to mean. Me and myself are working on a strong love/love relationship. I've accepted that call girls and escorts do exist, because I saw those Craigslist ads and my maitre'd points real ones out at the restaurant. I shall never pursue any such relationship, even though it does sound like a great financial move. I have not accepted that most people don't know what a paczki is. That is ludicrous. I will work and I will fight and I will dedicate my life to spreading the love and joy of Polish dough until everyone on this blessed earth covers their Fat Tuesday in powdered sugar.

Life is weird, because you are weird. And you, and you and you and you and you. Deal with it.