I think I should start tracking how my sleep changes during the year. Because I think it’s on a big cycle and I am just too myopic to see it. I’m back to falling asleep around 7pm and waking up absurdly early to use the toilet. This morning I’m also feeling a strong need to stretch and do a little exercising before climbing back in bed. My body hurts.

I think that I finished lay out yesterday. That’s pretty exciting. I’ve been working on lay out intermittently for a year now. I finished. Squee.

Now I get to start trying to get rid of the darn tiles. I sent out messages to tile artists in the bay area before I started looking into recycling locations. Because wouldn’t it be lovely to donate to other artists? I’ve sent out emails and now I’m waiting on response.

I need to schedule a pick up for the other parts I need to get rid of. The skylight that is the wrong size and can’t be returned. The faucets were the wrong kind of installation and can’t be returned. (Slight discounts on the internet aren’t really worth it in the long run. I’m sticking with Home Depot in the future so that if I don’t use something I’m not stuck with it.)

I’ve learned a lot from this project. Now I hope I never have to use any of this frustrating knowledge again.

I’m still seriously on edge. I’m brittle and shaky. Anxiety hurts now in a way it didn’t used to. I spend a fair bit of time feeling ok these days. Contrasting that with a full on high anxiety day..

I have come so far. I used to feel like that on a regular basis. On some level, having a day of that is a fantastic shell to remind me how different my life is now. I’m so very lucky that I don’t live in that state of anxiety full time any more.

I am so very blessed.

I am lucky and privileged and blessed because these days… I very rarely have anxiety so bad it impacts my body for a week. I can’t recall the last time I had a hangover this bad. It’s kind of funny, I want alcohol but I know it would make me throw up like there is no tomorrow. Noah used just a little bit of rum as a step of making soup and I gagged. I can’t handle alcohol even though I feel like I want it in the tiny little cells in my body.

Is this what alcoholism feels like? I don’t usually want alcohol like this. I want that feeling of slightly distant and cheerful and I don’t know how to get there. Pot is different. But I just can’t drink right now or I’ll pay. The last two or three times I had wine I threw up. Whiskey is slightly better but it burns so…

I have such a fascinating body. I’m layers of sensitivity and fuss on top of sturdy. I may be in a lot of god damn pain and I may get sick and I may have to twist in odd directions to get things done… but I just keep on working.

Workaholic. That may be the best word. I don’t need to be obsessed with video games or drugs. I can lose myself in work.

If you do something long past the point when it is hurting you…. you may have a problem.

I can see the light at the end of the tunnel. I need a break so bad. I am so exhausted it is bone deep. But what do I long for in my exhaustion?

Time to go pull weeds. The garden is calling to my soul.

There is something fucking wrong with me. I just can’t stop working.

I have this weird little thing in my head with this work: I’m not going to be able to work like this forever. I’m going to collapse into infirmity and disability. It’s incredibly likely given all the signs and all the congenital stuff. My family doesn’t live long, healthy lives. We die young and in pain.

I’m paying future me dividends. I’m building this art and this garden so that when I am literally incapable of doing anything but sitting and looking around me… I will feel lucky for what I get to look at. I will feel blessed. I will feel inspired to think about fanciful stories. I will feel encouraged to grow and change and try even though all of us will end in death.

When I was a kid living with Auntie in the canyon I had to walk a mile to the bus stop. I walked past this lovely garden that this elderly woman made over many many years. Really I would walk through the garden because she didn’t mind if I detoured off the road and went a spell through her yard enjoying the plants. I think she was glad that she wasn’t the only one to love her garden. I was so sad when she died.

When I was in high school a different family moved in. They wrecked the garden to make more room for parking cars.

Now I’m making my own garden. It takes years and years and years of effort. I didn’t understand that when I was younger. Gardening is a passion that takes root in your soul and demands years of dedicated service. Sometimes I feel like gardening is part of how I practice whatever religion it is that I have.

Oh religion. This one is near the surface and so painful lately. My therapist’s position can be summarized by her statement, “Spirituality is for everyone. No one gets to tell you that you don’t belong.”

But the thing is, my spirituality is very wrapped up in the communion of community. Even with people who really don’t want to be part of a community with me. You are my religion. Even when I quite frankly don’t like you very much. Even all you white men I spend so much time bitching about.

You are my religion.

That doesn’t mean I will try to conform to being like you. That doesn’t mean I will blindly support you. It means I will try to think about you. It means I think you are important and I struggle to reflect that in my behavior all the time. I’m so sorry when I fuck up.

It doesn’t actually matter if you are a stranger. You are a person. I believe in you. I believe you can do more than you ever dreamed you could. I believe you are going to fuck up and make bad choices and sometimes I will want to lecture you about those but mostly I’ll keep it to myself. Even with your fuck ups I still believe in you. I believe you can overcome difficulty even as you say can’t. You did. You will.

I believe that I should do something to help you in this life. Maybe not a lot, but something. Even if that something is choosing to walk instead of drive when I’m not going far because we all need to breathe in 50 years.

We are all connected through our choices and our experiences. I can find connection with anyone. We won’t be “the same” because I’m not the same as anyone. I’m weird. But I can connect on some axis.

I believe that Gods are the inventions of human beings because human beings need ways to understand and influence behavior. I believe humans invent Gods because they need to externalize the sense of connection they feel.

I wouldn’t say you are my God. I would just say you are my religion. Religion can mean a few different things, like: “a pursuit or interest to which someone ascribes supreme importance” or “a particular system of faith and worship”. It can be about superhumans but it doesn’t have to be.

I have faith in you. Even if you feel valueless. You haven’t learned how to look at yourself how I look at you. You have value. You have strengths. I can tell you all about them after I get to know you a bit. There are ways and skills you possess that make you talented. No matter how stupid you feel.

Do you know what I completely suck at? Repetitive work. I go bonkers. I can’t pay attention to detail and do the same damn thing thousands of times. I can’t. I’ll break something. There are lots of people in the world who can though.

It’s a good thing that we are different. We can all do different work. I’m real serious about the idea that work doesn’t have to be for pay. I do a lot of work. I haven’t been paid except for what I get as my “legal share” of Noah’s money in a long time. I’m not doing the work in exchange for pay.

Hell, I think that’s one of the most fucked up thing we’ve done in this country. Why do we say that work must be compensated or it isn’t worth doing? I pick up garbage because my neighborhood is nicer if I do. Not because I’m getting paid. For goodness sake.

Anyway.

I wish my stomach would stop hurting. I wish I could get more than six hours of sleep in a row.

At least I’m done laying out tile! Now I get to transition back to painting. I need to fix the hallway because it looks pretty scuffed up and bad after this process. I don’t think I’m going to bother fixing the garage spots. They had to cut through the drywall to install some stuff. So there is a white patch in the middle of my brown background and brightly colored stripes. I don’t even care at this point. I’m so fucking exhausted.

But I will fix the hallway because vanity.

Tile guy was complaining yesterday that we have made so many mistakes in this project. He feels bad and would kind of like me to go buy some new tile and we can rip out the funky bits and redo it.

Uhhhh…. no. It’s ok. There are mistakes. It is true. That is a sentiment that fits neatly with my life and attitude. We learned a lot. This was a learning experience and yes we made mistakes. I will live with them and use them as focus points for thinking about mistakes I am making later in other life situations. I’m going to keep learning how to talk to people and how to grow up. I’m going to fuck up. I can think about whether I’m making the kind of mistake where I went too fast and was sloppy so everything came out uneven or if I wasn’t seriously looking at what I was doing so I grabbed something that was totally out of place for an area.

This shit’ll come up again as themes. Trust me.

I find it funny how often people tell me I’m a perfectionist. Sort of. Kind of. Maybe. But I accept an awful lot of imperfection and I just roll with it. I don’t sit and labor over something a long time trying to perfect it. I do what I do and I set it down and I move on.

So maybe kinda a perfectionist… but not entirely. Only sorta in some ways.

I’m also sloppy as shit and I can’t be bothered to care. People have been trying to get me to be less sloppy all my damn life. I sometimes think I prefer things to be scuffed up and kind of shitty so people don’t have the expectation that I’ll be able to put everything into proper place.

I ain’t proper and I ain’t never gonna be so go bark up some other tree.

I sort of wonder how much my difficulty identifying as an artist or a dancer or a writer or whatever is less about perfectionism and more about wanting to set expectations. I’m not interested in being critiqued as an artist or a dancer or a writer. I don’t put myself out there to be judged. I mean, I’ve been blogging forever but that isn’t the same thing as submitting a novel to publishing houses or entering contests or some shit. I don’t put myself in positions to be judged. I know I’m shitty and that’s fine leave me the fuck alone. I don’t need to participate in your contest so I can lose so I can know I’m shitty. I already know. I’m good.

Is that perfectionism? Really?

The trouble with dancing was I kept being told that I have to work on my footwork so I can be a better stage performer, so I can join a contest.

Fuck you and your judgment. I’m not here for your entertainment.

And I sure as mother fuck don’t want a participant trophy. Shove it in your fucking ear.

I love to dance. I can semi-competently dance: waltz, tango, fox trot, salsa, merengue, swing (east and west coast but I strongly prefer east),… I could go on for a while. I know a lot of different kinds of dances. I could easily come up with a dozen and maybe two dozen specific dances I know.

But I’m not interested in being evaluated for how “good” I am and as a result I do not identify as a dancer.

This is all weirdly tied in with the religion stuff.

I’m not worthy to be part of anything. I will never be judged and found acceptable. I will always be told I’m doing it wrong and I’m not very good.

So I just can’t risk judgment at all. It takes all I have to get out of bed and go about my shitty little mistake filled life. I’m doing the best I can. I know it isn’t as good as other people. Leave me alone.

I mean, I want feedback on some aspects of my life. It is important that I be a less shitty parent with every year. I want feedback on my behavior and choices because the impact of me making bad choices is huge and I’m not the one who pays the price. So in that area I want and need to be judged and I seek out sources of judgment.

But not as a dancer or a writer or an artist. Not when it comes to my California Woo religion either. I’m not part of your community, not really. I don’t conform to being what you want from a human being. But I drop in now and then because you are part of my community. Because I don’t need to judge you and decide you are good enough to be whatever it is. I don’t need to decide if you are good enough to be on stage. I just want to know you.

The fun thing about the painting is I told Noah I would let him get rid of my paint by his birthday. I’m not allowed to keep any after this project to tempt me towards more painting in the next few years. I need a break. Which means that I have a trailing deadline on a lot of the painting. I don’t have to get it done super fast. The tile laying had to happen with a fire under my butt because other folks need the results of my work. This is slower paced.

Because I have to go back to hanging out with the kids more. They need me. So I’m probably not going to be painting 40-60 hours/week.

Oh I’m so relieved.

I’m getting to the end of this horrible remodel and looking around my life. I am lucky. I am blessed. An awful lot of friends have shown up for me. They kept in contact. They came over, semi-regularly of their own volition because they missed me. I have friends who are happy to come over and walk with me. My kids are fantastic life companions. Noah works from home now and when I stop ignoring him all the time I think his depression funk will go away. I’m not ignoring him out of malice or spite. I’m fucking working. I’m exhausted and I have nothing more to give. This is not personal.

Things are going to be very different in June than they are now.

I didn’t get my shit together enough to add more classes at the next round of kid classes starting. I’m not yet back in the zone of being on-duty for them all day every day. Classes start this week at a neat home school program in San Jose. Ok. We’ll have to start next school year then because this remodel ate my life.

I have nothing more to give. Eldest Child is making steady academic progress because she’s self directed and feisty. Youngest Child decided that since academics do not currently involve a bunch of mom time that shit can wait until they turn seven. Seems legit.

I have been very impressed with how well they have handled all this. Ok, they bicker a fair bit lately and there have been a couple of screaming matches… but that happens anyway. We have not had a descent into Lord of the Flies and they still by and large like each other and get along most of the time. Schweet.

It is almost over. It took too damn long. Almost to fourteen months of fuss in the house with another year of mental planning before that. I worry that I lack follow through. You know what? I am awesome at follow through. Sticktoittivity.

I’ve been awake for two hours. I think I can go back to sleep now.

I haven’t titled this yet because I don’t know how much I can type. My hands are hurting a lot. Twitter-storms are so much less effort.

The arbitration process is basically over. We don’t get results for a few weeks but there isn’t much more for me to do. I can stop thinking about it.

“Isn’t it true that you have issues with all men?”

No. That isn’t exactly true. I have this buddy, T, and you know what? I’ve never had a problem with him.

I’m sure there are more men I don’t have problems with. But the thing is, even though I have problems with a wide variety of men… I also deal with a lot of men. I don’t think that my problems are all because of me.

The arbitrator looked pretty upset at having to read about me wanting to stick my head through windows. She didn’t want to know I am a masochist.

Thanks, opposing council, you are so classy. To be fair… he was a little classy. He really wanted to bring up me cheating on Noah and he didn’t go there. He hinted around it a lot but he didn’t outright bring up our marital problems in the case. So… even though I don’t like him even a little bit… he did have a small amount of tact.

But now I’ve had a new life experience: ridiculed in court for being crazy, check.

It was kind of funny, as I went to sleep last night I had a thought: I’m queer. I attempted suicide as a youth. Oh shit. That means I’m part of those queer-youth-try-to-kill-themselves statistic. I’m not sure why that popped into my head but it was weirdly hilarious in the moment.

He spent a lot of time talking about how he was doing a trial of impeachment. Basically I am not a trustworthy witness about anything because I’m crazy.

I’m a lot less upset than I was yesterday. My stomach is settling down. I think I’ll be able to eat today. Yesterday I didn’t eat much. It wasn’t physically possible. But I stayed hella calm during the entire procedure. I was definitely not one of the more outbursty people.

I can dissociate like whoa.

Strangely enough I don’t feel like I care as much about being shamed as he would really like me to feel. I suppose that is progress.

Speaking of shame, here’s a neat blog about shame and male sexuality.

My heart feels heavy and sad. I’m really glad I have a massage and a chiropractic appointment today. That’s a serious blessing.

I’m 2/3 of the way through the final wall. Hopefully I’ll finish it today. We’ll see how I feel. Maybe.

And the White House is threatening to crack down on marijuana use. Oh fuck the whole world and all the people too.

I will hit post on this after the day is over. Because my lawyer doesn’t want me hitting post this morning. She would prefer that I take my entire blog down but I don’t think that is going to happen.

Apparently when a construction puts a substandard roof on my house the rebuttal should be, “Yeah well… but she’s crazy. See how much she writes?”

1,100 pages from my blog instead of a shred of evidence about the roof quality. Oh that sounds like a solid defense on y’alls end.

I haven’t been writing partially because it is hard not to rant about how frustrated I am with the legal process and I am under strict instructions to shut my pie hole and I suck at filtering.

I’m sad, tired, in pain, and very frustrated. But in positive news: tiling is almost done! I’m halfway done with the final wall. This is a big deal. I’m so happy with this progress and I love the lay out of this wall. It’s beautiful. I think we have about two weeks of tile application left to do. I will be painting once I finish this wall. That’s so thrilling. I get to go through and finish painting the hallway and the bathroom.

The tile guy is going to morph into general-construction-guy and do a few finishing up details for us when tiling is over:

• check the drywall in our bedroom to see where the leak is by the window because we are having mold problems
• probably replace drywall in our room & add insulation
• leak under the sink
• attach all the towel bars, toilet paper holders, candle holders, hooks for plants
• reattach all kitchen cabinets (I suck at doing this and they end up not hanging straight)
• clean up the edge of the badly poured concrete

I thought I would come home and work on this. The arbitration was a nightmare. I feel so sick. Maybe I’ll write later.

I’m done working. 8am-12am is god damn long enough. Now I’m medicating for bed. The pot helps and hurts my sleep. It interrupts my dream cycle and prevents me from getting as deep of sleep. It helps with the pain and allows me to lie in bed that long. It’s a mixed bag.

This tile work is fucking awful. My fingers hurt. They hurt like pushing on the back of a razor blade for hours and hours for days and days hurt. Cause I’ve been doing that. The scissors just ain’t sharp enough.

I feel like I drive everyone away. I’m glad Noah is here to validate how hard the cognitive plus physical load of this job is. I’m feeling insecure and whiny and impatient with myself. I can’t tell if the tile guy is complaining as much as I think he is or if I am just being neurotic. We have this weird dynamic where technically I’m the boss but mostly he treats me like a flunkie.

So he constantly interrupts my work flow for questions and requests. Things like asking me to explain the lay out of an area he doesn’t want to do for weeks. Which… is complex and requires switching gears in my brain to explain. Then I get back to work. Then he interrupts to ask me to go get him a pen. Then I get back to work. Then he interrupts my train of thought to ask why I haven’t finished some area I haven’t started already.

I’m going bananas.

He asked me to go get him a phone charger; it was in the car so I had to get the key from Noah then go outside then get the adapter from the living room. Then he didn’t use it.

Shit like that.

I am not amused. Sixteen days in. The progress is coming right along. The tree is growing in huge chunks. Today I prepared approximately 10 sq ft of tree trunk and bower. Tomorrow they are also going to start work on the snow wall so they can go back and forth between the tree and the snow wall when I’m gone at medical appointments. Whee.

Strategizing what they are going to do when is a constantly moving target because his mood shifts. Sometimes he is adamant and fussy that all pieces must be x shape and y dimensions and then the next day he yells at me that I’m stupid for doing it that way because look, this new area he’s working in wants this other configuration. Why didn’t I see that?

I’m struggling to be nice.

I mean, I get it. This really is a bitchy job. He’s taken to chanting puta madre all day long. He’s struggling and this is super hard and he’s not used to jobs taking this kind of cognitive load and this was dumped in his lap with no actual negotiation. The other real tile guy has bailed on him because he thinks this job sucks.

Sigh. And still we struggle on.

I need this guy. So I have to figure out how to deal with his mouth for a while all strategic like. Thus typing to myself. I don’t think as well any other way.

Also! There is always Spanish music playing and they speak to me more and more in Spanish. So my brain is working in god damn triple time.

Good golly I need a break. Luckily we are going to be able to sneak off to that upcoming Saturday event. You know the one. Or you don’t and that’s ok too. I’m not going to be doing the hot tub part because we are going out to dinner after. We will be there by about 4:30 if you want to see us…

I may be frisky.

We’ll see.

I’m feeling pent up and overworked as fuck. I want to play and rest and I don’t know which I want more. One of my buddies sent me an email telling me she wants to go dancing in a club again soon. Oh man. That sounds so late at night and so tiring and so fun.

I don’t have the spoons. Shit shit double shit.

Someday. I hope.

Fuck this work shit. I could slack off and only work when they are here. Ha. “Slack off” by working 40 hour weeks. That’s me in a nut shell. That’s why my family all harshly argue with anyone who calls me lazy. They don’t need me hearing that word. It’s Pavlovian. I’ll work until I sit down on the floor for a “little rest” then wake up 4 hours later because I passed out unconscious and then I’ll get up and work again. It’s easier to work when the kids are sleeping. Then I’m not ignoring them.

I couldn’t go without sleep like this before I had children. I wasn’t physically capable. Parenting has taught me a lot about what I’m capable of doing.

Do you know what I’ve been thinking about lately?

I keep thinking about Jenny telling me that the story of me is what I do with my agency and not about what happened to me. I’ve been talking to tile guy about developmental trauma, brain plasticity, different stages of development and the various processes for healing different problems, going through different therapeutic styles and talking about why they are useful…

I’m telling you. I’m under cognitive load here. These are hard concepts to explain to someone who is mostly functional but not at all educated in English while you are concentrating on fidgety, fussy, particular work.

I god damn MOTHER FUCKING HATE FIDGETY, FUSSY, PARTICULAR WORK. OH SWEET CHRIST I HATE THIS SHIT.

I can’t ever sell this house.

I have poured my heart, soul, dreams, blood, and children into it.

It’s going to turn out that only one of my children will be born here. That’s ok. It wasn’t really a fun experience at home. I uhhh did better at the hospital so that’s plan a. Next to find a doctor as cool as the person who was randomly on duty at Valley Med. Well. Next is get pregnant. Yo. We are doing what we need to do in that department. Sometimes bodies say, “You know how you are working obscene hours? No. Not yet.” I am ok with that. I’ll get knocked up soon enough. Nine months of trying for four pregnancies is still an average I can’t complain about. Ok, ok, only two full term pregnancies. Miscarriage has been on my mind too. I feel like I keep seeing references to it every where lately. Mostly I don’t think about it because if those pregnancies had worked I wouldn’t have Youngest Child and I really like them. I think they are a neat person. I’m glad I get to watch them grow up.

I can accept that I mess things up as I learn how to do them right.

Yeah. I do that.

I showed the owner of the construction company the mold in our bedroom. He uhhh was concerned. Apparently they are going to do a bit more work to determine the extent of the leak in our bedroom. Wood is warping and the primary reason that would happen is a leak. So they need to open the drywall and replace it and I think we’ll just go ahead and have them insulate the walls cause good golly.

Oh fuck money. Money. Money. Burn it all.

Oh yeah. Pay that bill.

The internet is so damn useful. Organize your thoughts, bitch to your friends, strategize, flirt, read all the news, stream movies, and pay all your bills. I didn’t even mention porn yet. But there I go. See, the internet is awesome.

Thanks Al Gore.

Politics are scaring the absolute shit out of me. I’m feeling self absorbed and horrible for being as selfish as I am. I couldn’t do this project like this if Noah weren’t here doing food and a lot of kid wrangling and taking them to classes and…

Good golly I’m in a weird spot. When the country was doing better and most people were having it pretty good I had it shitty. Then everyone else got in a bad spot and I’m not any more. I don’t think it happened because I’m more deserving. Life is complicated.

I’m spending a lot of time listening to the problems in their large families.

I just listen. I don’t speak unless they ask me a question. It seems kinda… rude. But luckily they ask a bunch of questions. They think I’m something else. I’m given the elaborate praise from the assistant, “I don’t think I would have slept through your class.” No kid, you wouldn’t. No one did. If they tried, I helped them wake up. I get one hour out of your day. I won’t burden you with undue homework. Give me your attention for one gosh bleepin hour.

I’m feeling a bit scattered you might say. I really wanted to put a k in scattered. Sigh.

Krissy with a god damn K.

I should go to bed. I’ve been medicating and talking to myself for an hour (I take breaks between sections right now because my arms hurt fiercely). I’ve been missing talking to myself. I’m allowed to segue straight back into talking about my siblings again if I’m talking to myself.

It’s hard listening to them talk. Sometimes when the older guy is coaching the younger guy through how to be a better family member I have to put my ear phones in and drown out the sound. I listen to loud female singers in English and bop around.

We can’t all have what you have. It sounds truly wonderful. No. I can’t just “get over it” and go back to my siblings and act like we are a family. We have never been a family. We are relations; si is la verdad. Pero no familia.

They are asking me fewer questions about me and more questions about wide ranging topics that they are curious about. I’m playing rent-an-encyclopedia. I read a lot of shit. I go a lot of places. I talk to a lot of people. I know shit.

Sometimes when I strop and start making a list of the topics that we cover: government, developmental psychology, trauma recovery, addiction mechanisms, vivid descriptions of various places and stories about my adventures (carefully sanitized to a degree–I mean… I specifically said that I’m queer but I’m leaving kinky out), educational theories around the damn world, and world religions.

I know some god damn shit. And I can talk about it on request for about as long as you have patience to listen because I have more patience than you and I study this shit.

Why shit? Because I’m shivering and pissy about it. But I don’t want to stop smoking. Whine. I know I need to stop smoking again. For the duration of this project I need to just medicate a lot on edibles and deal with paying for it. I’m all up in my feelings about money and health and fork and erk and

I HAVE TOO MUCH TO THINK ABOUT.

And every few minutes the kids wander in to talk to me and ask me questions.

Sometimes Noah comes in to tell me he thoughtfully bought me chocolate. Thank you, dear.

This right here is why I like working in the middle of the god damn night when everyone is sleeping.

Deep breath. I am grateful for all the blessings in my life. I am so glad I am not alone. But learning to work with such constant interruption + pain + everyone expecting me to be patient and sunny in disposition at every moment = holy tomato I’m overloaded right this minute.

I’m wearing my cranky pants.

I’m really enjoying the new Lady Gaga album Joanne. The very first time I heard some of the songs I wasn’t sure…. then I listened a second time and I was hooked.

I have privileges. I have parts of my life that are hard. I have parts of my past that were downright shitty. Ok.

Lots of other people are having a hard time right this minute. If I’m doing really ok in a time when people aren’t that is a moral obligation.

I wasn’t exactly raised with the expectations that I would have to learn how to manage a lot of money. This feels really stressed about money right now. Not because we are doing poorly. All I have to do is go look at our net worth and I can’t believe that I’m doing poorly. But I feel like I’m fucking up and up and up and up and up.

Life is costly. I have some very particular expensive tastes.

Like… corset dresses… ooooh. If I’m not going in the hot tub I can wear the dress at the party… That sounds potentially fun. Maybe.

Maybe. It’s work. Ha. I’m feeling like pudding. Maybe that’s the sign to go to sleep.