Anthony makes my shitlist

 If I’ve decided I don’t like you, there is very little you can do to change my mind. In fact, any efforts on your part may only be making matters worse. Settle in for a bumpy ride.

Generally I’m pretty easy to get along with. Don’t talk shit about my friends or family, don’t touch my food without asking first, don’t flake out on an agreed upon engagement once I’m already seated at the event by myself and for fuck’s sake, don’t get caught lying to me. I mean, there are roughly 40 other offenses and 25 minor infractions, but these come to mind first. Although, now that I’ve said that, I feel I have to mention loud chewing. If you are one of those people, you and I cannot co-mingle. I will kill you and it will suck. I’ll go to jail and end up a drug addicted toothless lesbian trading sexual favors for Top Ramen, tampons, homemade booze, and heroin.

I’ve done some traveling recently for family reasons. I love traveling. Correction: I love traveling when I enjoy my company. I love my husband; my traveling did not change that. My 11 yr. old however, well, there were days that I woke up thinking ‘this is going to be the day that I punch an 11 yr. old.’  There is something inherent about travel that brings about the absolute worst in my child; something that tells him he must test every boundary. Every day it was a game of 'Operation.' Strategically he would provoke all of my annoyances and wait for my head to explode. I pictured myself the animated character in the game, every time Curran got too close to a nerve my face would light up bright red. Fuck that kid.

I can’t write off my child no matter how many of my infractions and offenses he criminally spikes like footballs. Wanna know who I can write off? Sure you do. I can write off the preppy douchenozzle who was seated next to me on the plane on my way home from Minneapolis. I’m going to call him Anthony. I don’t know why. He looked like an Anthony and if I’m being real, I’ve only ever known one cool Anthony. So, there! Anthony, on my flight home from Minneapolis, you are a bag of limp dicks.

Limp dick Anthony had an aisle seat. I get that having an aisle seat is like winning the fucking flight-seating lottery, but sometimes you have to not be a selfish cunt.

My husband, my son, and I walk onto the plane like gangstas. No we didn’t, we were fucking tired and bitchy. Okay, I was tired and bitchy. My son was a bouncy little shit. I’ve never wanted to Hannibal Lecter someone so badly. If they had offered face masks on the plane, I would have paid any price. Anyway, we’re cruising down the walkway to our seats. We already know that we are going to be across the aisle from each other; 2 on one side, and 1 on the other. I figured that once someone saw our adorable family they would offer to switch seats so that we could all sit together. That would be the human and decent thing to do. Normally, I believe that would have happened, but we had Anthony in his creased Chinos and checkered shirt. More on all of that soon, I have so much shit to talk.

It would probably have been very easy to politely ask this twat if he wouldn’t mind switching so that we might all be seated together. Was I even sure I wanted that? But instead I chose to play the manipulative card. I looked at my husband as we seated ourselves and said: “Bye, honey…” hoping to pull at the android's heartstrings. Zero response. He couldn’t even be bothered to look up from his Skymall magazine. Come on, dude! I’ve read that piece of shit. There isn’t anything in there.

I seated my spawn next to the window because even though I was upset, I wouldn’t wish the kind of torture that sitting next my kid for the next 3 hours would be upon anyone.This proved to be a mistake. For 3 hours Curran lifted the window shade and closed the shade, lifted the shade and closed the shade – for the w-h-o-l-e  f-u-c-k-i-n-g ride. I’m seated between these two numb-nuts wondering what atrocity I had committed in a former life that has me serving my penance in this fashion. I don’t think Anthony is breathing, this further confirms my belief that he is inhuman. I’m eyeballing his movements from my periphery. I know he can feel it. Good.

I can see his phone. This dude apparently never checks his emails, his Twitter notifications, or does any updates on his applications. So, I’ve established he’s rude, he’s probably a shitty friend and/or employee if he’s not responding to emails, he’s egotistical if he’s too good to check his Twitter notifications, and he’s lazy if he can’t update his applications. This is what I mean when I say that once I’ve decided I don’t like you, there is no coming back. Nothing Anthony can do will ever be right. In fact, his hair is ridiculous too. I want make sure he knows that I’m still married, so I talk over him, across the aisle to my husband. Ya know, like ya do.

I can’t say it was intentional, but I may have taken my socks off and on 2 or 3 times throughout the course of the flight. I may also have gone to the bathroom even though I didn’t have to go. I definitely put on headphones and sang out loud just as he was falling asleep. Fuck you, Anthony. Don’t fuck with newly married women who’ve just had to go through some emotionally raw family shit AND are traveling with pre-teens. You clearly don’t know our struggle.

I’ve been away from venting for a while. Our family has suffered a great loss and I have not much felt like laughing or writing or even sharing. I’m beginning to feel better. By better, I mean to say bitchy and rant-worthy. Hope you’ll stick around as I get my writing legs back.

Recoverymoon

 Sunday, June 10, 2018

Within 48 hours of being married my husband was admitted to the hospital.

We left San Diego on Saturday morning from Las Vegas airport flying into Minot, North Dakota. I know what you’re thinking – that’s some bullshit right there. You’d be right. Minot, North Dakota is way the fuck out there. The reason for our destination wedding is to be with my husband’s father while he undergoes treatment for cancer.

Maybe I should back up a bit…

On Thursday May 29^th, we got a call that his father had been admitted to the hospital with the prognosis of cancer yet undetermined but they knew it was in his spine, liver, and kidneys. At this point, we are still waiting on the biopsy results for the type of cancer. By Friday (less than 24 hrs. later) he was paralyzed from mid-chest down. Kevin and I booked our flight on the shittiest and most affordable (cheapest) airline I could find immediately. This scrap metal airline only flies 3 times per week and the next available flight was Saturday, so we took it.

June 2^nd we arrived in Minot, North Dakota at Ralph’s (Kevin’s dad) bedside. If you’re hoping for a funny blog, you’ve picked the wrong day to read. Stop now. The rest is a fucking shit show.

The whole family began converging here in Minot. From all over the country people began showing up. Not knowing how long Ralph has left, we’ve all left our lives at home to be at his side.

I’m having difficulty even writing this. Sitting in a hospital room with him and his two sons – the rest of the extended family having gone home, I am flooded with emotions. There is a pride having been accepted by this wonderful family. This family that has rooted themselves in faith and love has accepted me. Loss - the inevitable loss of this man is overwhelming and incomprehensible. His smile, laugh, generosity and his kind eyes are nearly haunting. I can’t bear to think about what life will be like without them. There is also so much love. Even now, there is laughter in this room. As I lift my head from time to time scanning the room, I see adoration, patience, and a kind of acceptance that I don’t understand.

I married Kevin on Wednesday June 6, 2018 in his father’s hospital room. Most of the extended family was present. The family’s pastor performed the ceremony. We really wanted to ensure that Ralph was present for our occasion. There was no gown, no hand selected rings, no after party and it was not at all how I imagined it would be. It was absolutely perfect.

On Friday June 8, 2018 we admitted Kevin to the same hospital that his father is at. This is not how I imagined we’d spend our honeymoon either. I can’t sleep next to the man I love. My heart breaks every night. My heart breaks for Jane, Kevin’s mother, and for her sons. It aches when I drive home 30 mins each night to sleep alone. Jane has slept at her husband’s side each and every night, not leaving the hospital.  The family actually lives in a town called Deering which is 30 mins outside of the main town where the hospital is. Deering’s population is 98. Not 98,000 – just 98. Perspective.

I haven’t been able to write anything. I’m still struggling. I’m wiping away tears as I write this now. I am thankful that through all of this I’ve had a loving family that has banded together. I am amazed at the grace that this family is walking with. Faith and love – these are the tools this family is using. If it is enough for them, I’m certain it can be enough for me.

As it gets easier, I will try to write more. For now, I am walking through this as gracefully as I can with my family. We all need each other. We all offer one another support in different ways at different times. For now, I will sit back and watch these two men with their father and this woman with her husband. It’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.

Kevin gets admitted

Pre-Kevin Admission

Wedding Day

Monster truck day dreams and shitty kids

Some days are harder than others.

This morning I dropped my son off at school. It should have been like any other day. My head-space, however, was muffled. All the activity taking place around us seemed to crawl by; like an underwater carousel. If I listened attentively I could faintly make out the sinister plucking of a music box’s song. I was on autopilot. That’s always reassuring – does it comfort you to know that I may share the same school parking lot with your child? Blindly wielding a multi-thousand lb. vehicle through a narrow access passage where children and other moms in athletic wear saunter while chatting over their morning lattes and flat whites? Incredibly distracted and mildly hateful – my daydream of monster trucking through the parking lot is cut short.

I noticed a pattern. That pattern shook me from my happy place. ALL the cars in that parking lot were either minivans, SUVs, or pickup trucks. The colors were all either garnet, slate, or white. There was no deviation. Suddenly I felt like a replicant. Was I in Gattaca? Are all my choices predetermined or set by class? This is some fucking bullshit right here! I snapped from my fog and looked around. Every bitch looked the same. Hair tied in a floppy mess on the top of her head, large framed sunglasses, athletic pants (or yoga pants for the rest of you – I just even hate saying it) and some coffee or tea carrying vessel. Holy fuck! I think all of them laughed in unison; tossing their heads back at the same time. I’m going to die today. That’s what’s happening here.

Children varied drastically. I noticed one of the boys seemed unruly - running wild. He was hitting his mother while she attempted to hold his hand and keep him from climbing on a brick retaining wall. She continued to walk and talk with her girlfriend; paying no attention to him, or at least pretending not to. Sorry, fuck that shit! If my kid was slapping me, (which he never did because he fucking knows better) I would calmly interrupt the conversation with my BFF so that I could address my demon seed. I’d firmly grab him by his shitty little shoulders and remind him that he’s liable to hurt himself if he keeps acting a fool. We address bad behavior incrementally. First the warning, then the action, and finally we give the child up for adoption because who needs that kind of bullshit?

I don’t give a fuck what anyone says about disciplinary action; my mom only ever hit me once, I earned that shit though. I don’t agree with beating your kids, but if your child is an unruly brat, a firm hand is sometimes required. You need to be the judge of that. Hopefully you’re not a dimwitted asshole with rage tendencies yourself. We’ve let children get away with too much in the name of allowing them to “express themselves” or be “authentic” and “individual.” Of course they’re authentic and individual! They’ll eat spaghetti out of their rain boots that they’ve worn in the middle of summer if you let them. So…

Don’t let little people walk all over you. Make the rules, stand by them, make them accountable. Those little assholes will lead us. Please, don’t allow them to become (or remain) sniveling little pussies who believe they’re entitled to everything under the goddamn sun. Obviously, I’m speaking of children and not midgets, although you shouldn’t let midgets walk all over you either. It’s just good practice to hold people accountable to and for their actions.

Wow, this started with the cars in the parking lot. Now I hate uniformity in moms and shitty little kids. Awesome! More on rage and hate later. For now, I need to focus this hostility at people I work with. I’m going out of town for a week, so I only have a few precious hours to make certain they know I barely tolerate them.

Reflections

Safe beyond the trees

Memories haunt tomorrow

You are songs whisper

Bravery

One of the strongest women I know. Please take some time to read this story.

It’s rare that I post someone else’s work. That isn’t an accident. I’m selfish and self-centered. 

This story needs to be shared. This couples journey through loss and sorrow and their ability, through faith,  to persevere, is truly beautiful. 

Does this shade of "holy shit" make me look crazy?

Some shit I’ve learned the hard way not to ask:

If you could change one thing about me, what would it be?

Your assumption would be that your significant other would have the common sense to walk the fuck away from this. I know I can picture mine tucking his hands in his pockets, shaking his head (without speaking), doing an about-face, and never speaking of it again. Just because I can picture it though, doesn’t make it so – that’s another story for another time.

I can picture myself in size 4 jeans with 8% bodyfat, no cellulite and a solid C cup – doesn’t mean Captain Frumpy Sweats isn’t the reality I’m working with. Best to just accept things and make the best of a shitty situation.

Being a self-aware woman, I stray from wearing clothing that places adjectives (of any kind) on my ass. No “juicy” clothing line or anything “apple bottom” for this hoe.

Would you mind terribly if?

Imma just stop you there. The aforementioned query format ought not be utilized unless the object is to be let down, but you knew this. Think about that shit. If you must ask, “would you mind terribly,” you know for fuck-all that that’s some shit you wouldn’t want to do – why the hell would they?

 What, now you’re going to get all butthurt when they take too long to answer? Or perhaps you’d like to spend the next 40 mins (after you’ve told them you’re cool) haphazardly throwing guilt around your house like glitter at a drag show.

I’m getting a disco ball to accentuate my glitter. The handymen (I ordered 3 for shits and giggles) will be here next week. I needed time in the interim to guilt my boyfriend properly for not handling the ball hanging promptly when I asked, “would you mind terribly if?”

Would you still love me if I put on a little weight?

He gulped. I could see the wheels spinning and the smoke beginning to formulate just outside the auricle as he tried to guess how much weight was a little. https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Auricle_(anatomy)

I had all the information I needed. Keep it right, keep it tight. Fucker.

Do you love me more than you loved your ex?

Whoa! Hold up! I know you guys are thinking that’s fucked up. That’s a loaded question. That’s completely uncalled for and uncomfortable. How do you expect someone to respond to something like that? Um…have you read any of my other questions? Of course, it’s uncomfortable and it’s preposterous. These are my questions. Go make up your own uncomfortable and inexcusable shit to ask someone. I’m proud of this one. I feel like this one truly captures the essence of my desperately low self-esteem and clawing neediness.

I’m also a total mindfuck and followed it up with, “I won’t get butthurt or anything, but remember she’s completely fuck nuts crazy,” thereby leaving him with only one viable answer: to put his hands in his pockets, shake his head, do an about-face, and walk the fuck away.

I have more I could add to this list, but my asshole co-workers are starting to look at me as though I should be doing something like working. What a bunch of pricks! It’s not as if they’re paying me. Fuck you, Tuesday. Don’t worry, Tim, I haven’t forgotten about you. I hate you the most!

Insanity timeline

4:00 am: Cat begins meowing in my face. I assume this is to awaken me so that I can feed his furry ass. Fuck that. I shoo him off the bed. Back to sleep

4:12 am: He’s back because apparently, he likes to be shoved.

4:20 am: And again. I swear to fuck, you do this again, Mugen, and I’ll cut you up and feed you to the other cat.

4:38 am: I’M UP YOU PIECE OF SHIT! I HATE YOU AND I’M TAKING YOU BACK TO THE CAT ORPHANAGE!!!

5:00 am: I’m dressed in my superhero spandex and out the door to do battle with the treadmill and spin bike.

6:20 am: My sports bra has fused to my torso permanently with sweat. I walk back through my front door to find the shitstain of a cat staring at me from the living room area rug with an odd look. It’s the look a baby gives when it farts for the first time or you catch your child masturbating. We cool, cat? Cool kitty…

Nope – not fucking cool!

6:21 am: Mugen pukes all over the tile floor (thank heavenly fuck) just next to the rug he was dragging his ass across like a dog with itchy ass. Tile I can handle, carpet is so much grosser. Fuck me! Did you just puke again and why is it coming out like water?! What the fuck is wrong with you? Why is there so much?

6:23 am: “I can hear you throwing up on my goddamn shoes in there you little shitbag! Get out of my closet you fucking bulimic flea bag!” My cat has relocated his purging party into my closet. Apparently, audiences are too much for him; he does his best work alone. Between him waking me at the unholy hour of 4 am and now cavomiting (new word) into my boots, I’m ready to skin him and send him back to the shelter as a message to all the other “would-be” adoptees.

7:00 am: I throw open the door to my kid’s room and resist the urge to yell “get up and don’t make me remind you to brush your teeth, I’m already pissed off about cat puke.

7:15 am: Standing creepy-style over my sleeping boyfriend I wonder if he can feel the brain waves and malignant thoughts I’m burning into his skull. A little fucking help here? You gonna sleep through all this shit? Video games till 2 am again? Check. Snoring? Check. Zero assistance with anything? Check. Rad!

7:22 am: Boyfriend goes in for the kiss goodbye. ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME RIGHT NOW? I know for a fact that you heard me cleaning up cat puke in the living room. I most certainly know that you heard the furry butthole come into the room then puke in my goddamn closet. I’m positive you heard me swearing through the whole ordeal. You aren’t fooling anyone when you shift in the bed and mumble softly, dickface. You’re looking at the queen. I invented that game. I know you’re not sleeping. Only bitches mumble in their sleep anyhow. No, of course I don’t need help cleaning the cat box or straightening the living room. Why would you think I would want help with anything? Did the goodbye kiss give it away? Maintaining eye contact during a limp-lipped kiss with my arms at my sides is kind of a telltale, isn’t it?

7:32 am: “Yo, Curran, are you ready? Please tell me you brushed your teeth.” Curran looks at me and asks for a pair of socks, telling me that he can’t find one solitary pair in his drawer. This is fucking unreal! I must be in the Twilight Zone. There is no possible way this child has not one pair of socks in the entirety of his room. It in unfathomable to me. I’m so close to snapping right now. I toss the kid a pair of mine. I almost handed him the pink ones, but I still love him. I just want to flick his ear right now.

I’d give anything to go back to just shoving the damn cat off the bed. Please save your “you can start your day over” bullshit for another time. I’m quite content living in the hot pink rage that is my Tuesday. With any luck I’ll get home and the cat will have shit on my comforter too. A final “fuck you, mom.”

-End rant

Rant: sick and fucking tired

Instead of roaring about gun reform when tragedies occur in our schools, how about we honor the lives that were lost and the families? I'd like to know what these lost souls were like when they were with us. Does that make it too personal for some of you to deal with? Good! It fucking should be. Human lives were lost! Show some goddamn respect for the families and shut the fuck up for 10 mins unless you have some honest to God condolences to share. Your good-for-nothing thoughts and prayers are paper ships in a rainstorm and are headed straight for the drainpipe where politicians are lying in wait. I'm tired of thinking of creative ways to spew the same useless rhetoric that has done nothing to ease the pain of parents, family members, and friends who continue to lose loved ones. Fuck this! Someone tell me about who these children were and what they loved. Someone please make this about humanity again. Honor these children and their families.

R & R (Rants and Raves) - Product Review: Squat Magic

Here’s the deal…the first few reviews are actual reviews from Amazon (with witness protection in play because I didn’t ask first) and my response in the green. I have added my own little review at the end. There are so many ways that I could go with this, but time is short and so is your attention.

I would like to inquire about the auditions though. Were people turned away for being too enthusiastic? I mean, it must be creepy if you’re totally into getting down on this product, right? I guess not if your hot and a female. What kind of people are super stoked on doing infomercials for this product? Yes, please sign me up for the commercial that makes it look like I take it in the ass on the regular.

By Amazon Customer on February 5, 2018

Verified Purchase

The machine snapped in half. Made with small plastic parts inside and broke all apart. Sending me right to the floor.

          Bwhahahahahahahah! The visual here is too much for me on a Thursday at work.

By N Trevino on April 11, 2018

Verified Purchase

Its hard to exercise with this product I could not stay in place. the design is weird and you slip off

          I could be wrong, but if you can’t stay on this son of a bitch, that would make this piece of equipment particularly dangerous. It’s too close to my rectum for me to not feel comfortable with its structural integrity.

By faysker on February 26, 2018

Verified Purchase

This is the worst piece of exercise equipment I have ever purchased, and I have many! It is very unstable. I fell when it flipped out from under me during the first use. My advice is to not purchase this equipment. Use a chair or something that will catch you if you lose your balance. Not worth the price either.

          Betcha wish you’d stuck to that Ab Roller. I think you can still hook yourself up with a Thigh Master. I hear those things are versatile.

By J L on February 7, 2018

Verified Purchase

So far so good. I have seen small results by day 3. You will definitely feel in your legs. I don’t feel so much in the glutes so we shall see.... don’t give into the discomfort you’ll feel in your legs and follow the 30 day challenge.

          Really? In 3 days you see small results? Must be some slammin cocaine or ecstasy you’re on. Sorry, that’s not how shit works. I’ll let you get back to petting your imaginary cat now.

Zero stars! I bought the unit thinking I would be able to use it while watching my episodes of The Bachelor. To my dismay, the unit was not assembled. I had to assemble everything from the hydraulic pump to fastening down the seat with allen wrenches; thankfully those were included. The resistance bands seemed rather cheap upon initial inspection as well. Once the unit was assembled I sat down and began to pump, pump, pump my way to a firmer rump.

The seat began to wobble underneath the weight of my 135lb frame. The shitty little resistance bands buckled under the pressure, shooting off the unit - one of them sailing across the room nailing my poor cat in the head. He’s never been the same since. With no resistance bands in play and inferior product materials, it took mere seconds for the seat to give way as well. The seat dislodged itself and I crashed to the floor with the unit still tucked firmly between my legs. The seat-less shaft penetrating my rectum required surgical extraction.

I just wanted firmer thighs and buns and now I have a retarded cat and a crippling fear of anything delivered to my doorstep. Thanks for absolutely nothing, Squat Magic! 

**This fucking thing costs $120 American dollars! What in the actual fuck??!! That's a lot of songs off iTunes I could have purchased instead or whatever you fuckers do with your cash. 

         

Fuck your sombrero

Being sober is amazing. Then it isn’t.

My best friend, Jennifer, said it best: “You’re the only person I know dumb enough, being Hispanic, to choose to get sober the day before Cinco de Mayo.” Truth be told, I wasn’t certain what day it was as I was dry-heaving the contents of an empty stomach while on hands and knees in my bedroom at my dad’s house. Bile and Bacardi was surely going to be the last thing I’d remember. Cinco de Mayo wasn’t even in the periphery.

Margaritas weren’t really my jam anyhow. Not unless you made them with expensive tequila, just a splash of mixer and a shit ton of salt. If you even thought about putting that shit in a blender I would punch you on principal alone. That’s expensive tequila, jackass. Always serve that shit “neat” unless you’re with a bunch of assholes who can’t know you’re a hopeless drunk and they paid for it, and then do whatever the fuck you want with it.

Caucasians are really the only ones that fuck with this stupid holiday (yep, I just went there) with the exclusive purpose being the justification of drinking. I may have this all fucked up but here’s what I see: handfuls in the Asian communities get super excited and have a few parties. Denim, pouty lips, and cropped tops are standard issue uniforms for the ladies. Athletic gear and sideways ball caps for the guys. These parties aren’t raucous though and typically die down by midnight. 

I usually don’t see too many African Americans getting shit-faced. Maybe I’m wrong, but any time I ever went to the bar, and I spent a lot of time there, incidents caused were always initiated by emblazoned white women, angry that their man has been cheating (or at least thinks he is) or drunk white guys. I use the term “guys” loosely. They’re really just undisciplined, hurt little boys out past their bedtimes, who got into dad’s Jack Daniels stash. At least that’s how they act when they think they have something to prove.

Hispanics will drink whenever and wherever. We don’t give a single fuck. We’ll drink at your company holiday party in the parking lot before we go in, at your cousin’s funeral (also in the parking lot), on long car rides because we’re thirsty and it’s hot out, we’ll take one into the movie theater and crack it open in the middle of the film, or on our neighbors lawn while we’re talking (often without a shirt if male). We don’t care where and we don’t need your white holiday. Keep your shitty and offensive Chevy’s sombrero, you'll need it to throw up into it later, Debra. 

I’ve been sober since May 4, 2013. That’s a long time to go without a drink for a person like me. Not only do I not like many of you, but I also really don’t like me most of the time. My not liking myself is amplified when I can’t do simple tasks without wanting to kill one of you. Here’s the thing though: some of you are real self-absorbed, ass-faced robots and make me want to break things. I’m not exempt; I come fully loaded with my own factory setting fault enhancements. Being sober only makes me more aware of them.

Sobriety is great in that it gives you the opportunity to grow-the-fuck-up and see where you’ve been a jackass, but it in the same breath - it sucks dick. You have to look at your mistakes, where you’ve been less than adult and where you’ve been downright childish. Then you have to do some shit about it. What’s more is, it’s not a one-time thing. I have to continue to do this shit. I have to continue to look at where I’ve been a liar, or a cheat; where I’ve caused hurt and pain, and then I have to try to make it right. I’m not supposed to drink either, so now I’m super-duper fucked.

I still find myself prey to knee-jerk responses to emotionally charged situations. I’ll have to work on that. Not this week though.

Recently I got incredibly bent out of shape when I noticed that I had not been given the proverbial head nod from a friend of mine recognizing my anniversary. To my further chagrin, they made a point of giving kudos to someone else for the same accomplishment. What the actual fuck?!  I scanned my brain to think of what I had done to offend this person. What “friend crime” had I committed? I came up with nothing, so I’m taking all future celebrations for that person out of my calendar. I’ll be making those place holders the skull and cross bones emoji so I don’t forget. I’m such a people person.

Sobriety: I’ve gotten better, I’m far from well.