A Very Awful October Incident

October is my favorite month. I love everything about it – pumpkins, leaves, Halloween parties, sweaters. The beginning of my first October in LA was rough. The temperature hung out in the upper eighties and the trees stayed bright plastic-y green. I didn’t pack any sweaters in my one meager carload of stuff when I drove out to LA, anyway. I wanted to make snickerdoodles (because they are the best autumn cookie ever), but between the carbs and the gluten and dairy, almost everyone I knew couldn’t/wouldn’t eat them. Not only was October failing me on multiple levels, but I’d just quit my job at a super skeevy bar and finished my first level of acting classes with no money to continue – so October started out as a month of failure.

I refused to let circumstances get me down. One morning, on the second or third day of the month, I decided to wake up super early (before 11am) and go for a run. Starting the day/month off right! After a refreshing, invigorating run, I would apply to a couple high-profile PR agencies and spend the afternoon leisurely choosing from job offers.

Because unlike the hundreds of other places I applied (screw you, starbucks), today was going to be different. Today, I was going to be awesome.

I even felt so cool and hip and “totally California” that I decided to run in only a sports bra. ~Edgy~, I know. But with the temperature creeping toward ninety and the unfortunate fact that I sweat like a morbidly obese man, it made sense.

I trotted down to the underground parking beneath my building to grab my iPod. I bounced around the garage, singing Call Me Maybe, and did a dramatic turn –

And saw blood dripping from the trunk of my neighbor’s car.

A clump of scraggly blond hair hung out from the end, matted with the same blood that was drip, drip, dripping on the floor of the garage.

You know, just your average dead-body-in-the-trunk-of-a-car, happens all the time in Los Angeles, right?

Three thoughts instantly played through my mind.

1-    I am going to die.

2-   I am going to die in Los Angeles, and my dad is going to say, “I told you so” approximately 700 times at my funeral.

3-   I am going to die not wearing a shirt, and everyone is going to think I’m a total skank.

I bolted upstairs to my apartment and locked the door, shaking so hard I dropped my keys twice. Dead body. Murderer in my complex. What if someone saw me? What if the murderer saw me? Who was the girl? Was I a witness? Why did I ever decide to live with someone I met on the internet?

I picked up my phone and panicked about who I should call. I had a bad experience with 911 being utterly useless during a break-in once, so they were out. I considered calling my crush because he lived nearby, but even in what I thought were my final moments alive, I thought mayyybe he would think I was kind of weird/crazy and I WANT HIM TO THINK I’M COOL. Discovering a corpse would probably put me in the “too weird to date” category. I mean, I guess getting murdered would put me in the “too dead to date” category, but obviously I wasn’t ((/am never)) thinking rationally.

So I called another guy friend, who already knew I was weird.

As soon as he answered, I started yelling/weeping – not so subtle if there was a murderer hanging outside my door.

- “OHMYGOD SHE’S DEAD / HOW DO YOU TELL IF SOMEONE’S DEAD / I MEAN I THINK SHE’S DEAD / DEAD BODY HELP / OHMYGOD CAN YOU COME OVER / WHAT DO I DO / I’M GOING TO DIE / HELP ME I DON’T WANT TO DIE OMG OMG OMG”

As I gasped for air (my final breaths?), he asked if I’d tried to shake my roommate.

- “What? She’s not home, that’s why I’m calling you!”

- “Wait… who’s dead? Are you in your apartment? Carbon monoxide poisoning? You should go outside.”

- “THE GIRL IN THE TRUNK IN MY GARAGE IS DEAD CAN YOU PLEASE COME OVER.”

He again reiterated that I should go outside where there was open space, and then lurk around and get the license plate, and finally call the police. I crept outside and slunk against the wall, with one hand by my neck so I couldn’t get garroted (shoot, I’ve seen Phantom of the Opera – “keep your hand at the level of your eyes”). He told me he needed to get ready and would head over immediately, and to call back if anything changed.

I flitted around the outside of my complex like a hummingbird on speed. Who needs drugs when you have the fear of imminent, painful death looming overhead? Suddenly, I noticed a man exiting one of the apartments. I flung my body behind a tree and prepared for the worst. Should I confront him? What if he had a gun? The murderer appeared to be a skinny Asian hipster in a purple V-neck. Not what I was expecting, but those hipsters do have a lot of pent-up rage at society. From my spot, I watched him walk up to the corpse car and get in – not even bothering to check and see if anything hung out of the trunk. His first murder, for sure. Very sloppy.

The garage gate opened and I prepared myself to memorize the license plate – 911 already typed in my phone. I’ve never been more focused in my life then when that car turned and headed toward me…

Until I noticed two perfectly placed neon-red handprints on the top of the trunk.

In the sunlight, the smears of blood around the trunk also appeared bright red. And as any crime-TV-junkie knows, blood turns brownish when it oxidizes (ooh big words!) The hair flapped limply, suddenly appearing like a cheap, ratty wig.

Wait, what?

My phone buzzed.

-      - "Did you get the license plate number? I’m headed over soon!”

-       -" No…”

-       - "What?”

-       -“I don’t think you need to come over anymore…”

-       - “WHAT??”

-       - “I think it was fake.”

-        

I explained the situation, but only grew more confused as I tried to articulate it. In the dim lights of the parking garage, I was completely certain that I’d been standing four feet away from a fresh corpse – it was DRIPPING BLOOD ON THE GROUND, for crying out loud. But in the sunlight, something seemed suddenly but severely off. We briefly debated whether or not to still call the cops before he stopped and swore –

-       - “I hate October. Stupid people.”

I took offense to this. How could you hate the best month ever? If someone would just eat my damn snickerdoodles, health concerns be damned, then these stupid Los Angelinos would appreciate the wonderfulness of October.

-       - "That’s a bit harsh. October is my favorite month ever and just because this happened to be an unfortunate way to start the month – ”

-       - "R. Grace, it was a Halloween decoration.”

The revelation took a moment to sink in. And then it made sense. Well, except for

-       - "WHAT THE HELL SORT OF DECORATION IS THAT? WHO DOES THAT?”

-       - "People with poor taste, I assume.”

-       -"IT’S THE SECOND OF OCTOBER! WHO DECORATES THAT EARLY? WHAT HAPPENED TO PLASTIC SKELETONS AND PUMPKINS? THAT’S NOT SPOOKY IT’S TRAUMATIZING. I HOPE SOMEONE SEES IT ON THE 101 AND CALLS THE COPS.”

-       -"I seriously doubt they’ll get too far before someone makes them remove it.”

But once my rage subsided, my fears crept back.

-       - "What if it’s real, though? I mean it really is too early to decorate… and the perfect time to hide a body in plain sight is around Halloween so maybe everyone assumes it’s a decoration when actually it’s a body and I thought the killer was so sloppy but maybe he’s very smart omg there’s a killer next door and he saw me looking omg omg he knows where I live omg…”

-        - "R. Grace, that’s quite a stretch.”

-       - "Do you know how elaborate serial killers can be? Silence of the Lambs is my favorite movie; I KNOW THESE THINGS.”

After a couple more minutes of assurance that I wasn’t going to die, my friend told me to go ahead and go on a run anyway. It would burn off all the adrenaline and make me a little less jittery. Sage advice. I got this, right? A brush with the macabre wasn’t going to stop me from having ~the most productive day ever.~

I ran past maybe four house before a giant flash of black fur and teeth came charging at me. This effing beast came out of no where, jumping and flailing and definitely going to kill me, probably to save my serial killing neighbor the effort. What do you do when a giant dog targets you for a kill?

Probably not stop and scream, “HELP HELP IM GONNA DIE,” but that’s exactly what I did.

(I once had a large dog take a solid chomp on my bottom, so I do tend to freak out and panic around dogs. Just a little bit.)

In my one stroke of good fortune for the day, the owner came outside and called off the ferocious beast before it could shred the flesh from my bones. I then had to listen to a sob story about animal shelters and abandonment issues for a good five minutes. I wanted to mention that I’d have some serious abandonment issues if my leg abandoned me inside the creature’s vicious jaws, but decided to smile and nod and go on my way.

Running: round three. Two brushes with death were plenty for one day. I could overcome these obstacles. This was a test! I got this, I got this –

And then I stepped dead-center (ha) on a rotting squirrel carcass.

Squirrel entrails and sneakers are not a good mix.

I gave up.

I staggered back to my apartment, leaving a little trail of gore to the garden hose. Murder car had yet to return. I didn’t even care. Squirrel guts seemed a more pressing issue than certain death.

I finally returned to my apartment, somehow alive, and went straight to look up a recipe for snickerdoodles. My computer had at least six tabs open on how gluten would kill me, dairy would kill me, carbs would kill me… close, close, close.

Out of all my options, death by snickerdoodle seemed the most preferable choice of the day.

October is the worst.

The Very Hot (Accidental) Lesbian Incident

[Psst, I've updated the FAQ on that little sidebar thing there >>>]
[[Also, my email for PayPal is rebeccaroanoke@gmail.com if you're feeling generous.]]

My last post was a little harsh on the male species. I was going to apologize for that, but as I was writing this post, and happend to be dancing to this coffeeshop's overheard muzak of "I Will Survive," a businessman approached me and said he'd loved to see how I'd react if I saw Tchaikovsky's 1812 Overture.

I told him I loved it when I saw the Marinsky Orchestra's rendition last spring.

That shut him up. Ladies, a solid knowledge of classical music will never be a bad thing.

However, take heart, men of the world. I don't hate you specifically. You're actually quite convenient when the internet goes out at my apartment or when I need to borrow a coat. And as this post shows:

Bitches be crazy too.

----

The autumn of my junior year of college was a strange time. I had just returned from my kickass internship in NYC, full of big-city "life experience" and the belief that I now possessed some amount of coolness and, ugh, edginess. I chopped all my hair off before leaving, not out of badassery but sheer laziness. When you live and work in buildings that do not have AC, you can either have snarly sweaty knotted bun atop your head, or a chic pixie that requires no hairties and a lot less perspiration. Helloooo, not having to pack a blowdryer. I loved the look but I wanted some more. Something cooler. Something to make it clear that I was a hip, New Yorker babe who totally understood modern theater and maybe could tolerate wheatgrass shots.

I needed another piercing.

My face would probably be covered by a million piercings (because they're rad) except for one thing: I hate visible scars. So my piercing options are limited. Already had an industrial and a bellybutton ring, so what could come next? Though I'd threatened lady mother with getting my "naughty bits" pierced, I wanted something far more visible (so everyone could see how cool I was), and less likely to damage my reproductive organs. So I decided upon getting my septum pierced. The bull ring. Center of my nose. A full ring, not the little spikes. Yup.

[I almost chickened out and the whole following story would have been avoided. But no, my then-boyfriend thought it was a great idea and offered to buy me a lump of smoked gouda if I went through with it. SMOKED GOUDA, people. I couldn't resist. So I got a ridiculous nose ring and a chunk of delicious cheese all in one day.]

I went back to college with a teeny-tiny pixie and a circle of steel hanging in the center of my face. I thought I just radiated cool, big-city artsy chick... I was certainly giving off a strong vibe, just not the one I expected.

That first weekend I went out to a party with some of my roommates. Giant house, two kegs, a liquor luge - one of those places. There was some dancing to awful top-40ish hits, but mostly drunken conversation and catching up about everyone's soooo cooool summers.

I happened into conversation with a chick who wore a really rad vest (and I mean, other clothes too, not just a vest, but the vest was rad). All I can remember about what she looked like was the cool vest and long blond hair, so for the purpose of this story we'll call her Goldilocks.

Goldilocks complimented my nose ring, which was GREAT because I'd gotten a lot of no-really-what-the-fuck-were-you-thinking from friends and family. I'm still amazed Dr.Dad didn't try to pull it out of my head with pliers. I was SO STOKED about this awesome chick with similar music taste who thought I had good style. I mean, hello new bff?! However she then followed her compliment with:

"So you like piercings? Wanna see my nipple rings?"

I mean, yes I like piercings but... whaaat? Of course my confusion was more of a logistical one than wonder why this girl wanted to show me her boobs. So instead of walking away, or changing the conversation, I blundered right ahead with why that didn't make sense and this happened:

Me: "Hahahaha yeah right there's like fifty people in this room." (Logistics! Silly girl.)

Goldilocks: "We could just go in the bathroom; no one would know." (Still, STILL, I don't understand what's going on and continue)

Me: "One of my friends in highschool got her nipples pierced and they got all gross and infected and were like, oozing puss. I heard it was disgusting!!" (As Dr.Dad's kid I will forever throw in disgusting medical references. However, even the mental image of oozing slime did not deter her.)

Goldilocks: Mine aren't gross. I bet you'd really like them.

Okay, FINALLY I realized there was some weird vibes going on. I really didn't want to see her boobs, or sneak off into the bathroom with her. It started to dawn on me that perhaps I had been too friendly and given her the wrong impression, so I wildly veered the conversation to something something about my current boyfriend. No, I didn't leave or go talk to anyone else... still in discussion with crazyboob Goldilocks. I thought a boyfriend (aw-shucks-sorry-I'm-flattered) would deter her... not entice her more.

Me: Blah blah blah my boyfriend woooo tru luv forever blah blah (or something similar, I'm sure)

Goldilocks: Oh you have a boyfriend? Is he here?

Me: Nooooo we're long distance. (sad face)

Goldilocks: Long distance, that must be tough.

Me: Oh yeah it's really difficult and sometimes it feels impossible (STOP TALKING IDIOT BRAIN) but together forever truuuuu loooooooveee blah blah blah...

Goldilocks: So if you're long distance, is it an open relationship? (What?!?! Is that a common thing? Just because you don't see your beau on the regular you can go smooching on someone else?)

Me: Noooo we're definitely just us... ummm... like... super monogamous and boring. Nothing exciting here. Noooope. Boring ol' boyfriend-girlfriend-just-us relationship yuuuup.

Goldilocks: Do you want to make it an open relationship? (?!?!?!?!?! Props for boldness at least? NOTHING, nothing is stopping this chick.)

Me: WHAAAAT?! (I probably flailed my arms around. That's a thing I do when I get flustered.)

Goldilocks: I bet he wouldn't mind if you surprised him with a crazy story later. He'd probably find it really hot. Most guys do.

And Goldilocks stared me down. She was not going to let me go. Now I may condone a lot of bad-ish behavior but cheating is not my jam. Nor is making out with girls in cool vests at parties, but like, seriously. Not cool. And YET, I do not leave. I continue to engage. And instead of saying something polite, or politically correct, or just not god-awful stupid, I blurt out:

"I AM NOT GOING TO HAVE SEX WITH YOU IN THE BATHROOM."

Loudly.

Oops.

She glared at me, and snarled "stupid BREEDER," and turned and stormed off.
Breeder?
BREEDER?
Apparently this is a forreal anti-heterosexual insult, but BREEDER? I realized I was probably supposed to be offended but it sounded so ridiculous (what am I, an ox?) so I... busted out laughing as she walked away.

Sorry, Goldilocks. You shouldn't assume that girls with super short pixie cuts and facial piercings want to hop on you. Or maybe that is a valid assumption at an art student party in a college town...

And I shouldn't assume that people with cool vests want to be my new best friend.

The epilogue is: I removed my nose ring two days later. And my boyfriend two weeks later. Whompwhomp.

The Skeevy Salami Suitor Incident

Woah, I keep abandoning this blog and then returning to it months later! I guess it's a good thing I don't have any children. Or pets... or plants.

The past five (wowza!) months in LA have been wonderful - I have neither turned into a satan-worshiping sex maniac crackhead (much to the relief of some church folks), nor gone crawling back to NC as a humiliated failure (much to the disappointment of a past acquaintance). Somewhere in the range between crackwhoredom and abject loserdom, I've carved out a decent little life. I am learning lots of things daily - like how exaggerating a southern accent will get you more tips, how to register my car, oh and the most important lesson I should actually pay attention to --

Men in Los Angeles are freaking crazy.

I had a lot of of snarky things to say after that statement, but then I decided the story could stand alone as a testament to that assertion. Minimal snarkiness required.

----

I decided to be productive on my day off. Instead of sleeping in until past noon, I ventured out to the local Ralph’s to buy sandwich stuff. (The downside of working in a fancy shiny mega-shopping-center is your lunch break can cost you two hours’ worth of work alone. I’m a huge fan of chicken madeira, but seriously. So sandwiches it is.) For those not in LA, Ralphs is a… hmmm… decidedly not upscale grocery store. I once couldn’t get my favorite frozen-dinner-for-pathetic-losers because a teen couple was making out furiously against the sliding door. I might have seen a nip. That sort of establishment. 

But I was hungry, and on a budget, and also wearing sweatpants and glasses midday. No one would notice me, let alone bother me… or so I thought.

I rolled up to the deli counter, visions of turkey-and-avacado-and-brie wraps and homemade Tuscan Paninis dancing in my head. PBJ is just too plebian. My dreams of becoming the Julia Child of brown-bag lunch were temporarily halted, however, as the man in front of me had clearly ordered about FOUR POUNDS of deli meat. At least six or seven different types of meat, of course, so it was bound to take forever.

I waited patiently, because LA has made me all calm and zen and less spazzy (yeah right). Madame Meatslicer behind the counter offered the man a slice of bologna, awaiting his approval before slicing the rest. Out of kindness, or more likely to placate me as I was tapping my foot, she offered me a slice too. I immediately accepted and stuffed the bologna in my mouth. Some people say you should never go grocery shopping on an empty stomach, but I usually wait until I’m ravenous and semi-conscious from low blood sugar. I find it makes the trip more exciting.

The man with the cartful of meat turned to appraise me. He looked slightly older than Dr.Dad, and rocked a bit of a fake tan and an slight aura of trying to be cool past his prime. He spoke.

“Sorry it’s taking so long, my son’s twelve and he eats everything in the house.” 

Awwww what a Dad-ish thing to say! I thought. He reminds me of Dr.Dad. Except Dr.Dad’s tan is from working in the garden and not standing in a little box having orange goo spewed on his naked body. 

“How did you like the bologna?” I realized he was still talking to me. And the bologna in question was still partially hanging out of my mouth. (Epitome of classiness, right here) I managed to chew and swallow before responding.

“It was alright, but salami is definitely my favorite of the processed meats.” I somehow managed to sound both pretentious and like a dumbass at the same time… about salami. I really do love salami, though. And I was hungry. So it shouldn’t be my fault for what happened next.

“Oh, I got salami too! Would you like to try some of my salami before you order?” I mean, he offered.  I was overjoyed at the thought of free food and how gosh-darn friendly people are in LA, so I blurted out:

“Of course! I LOVE SALAMI! Thanks!” He then dug around in his cart, pulled out those flimsy plastic bags that hold delimeat, and presented me ceremoniously with a sliver of genoa salami. I stuffed it in my mouth gratefully.

It was really good salami.

In retrospect, clearly this was a mistake. Unpackaged food from a stranger? Engaging in conversation with anyone in LA, ever?  There are very few things about me that blatantly scream “southerner,” but I will always appreciate free food and striking up conversation with a jovial ol’ fellow.

Dumb, dumb girl.

We chatted briefly about salami and delimeat, and he informed me that if I got a full pound of meat, I would get a complimentary bottle of coarse-ground fancy mustard. 

Well damn. If there’s one thing I love more than salami, it’s fancy mustard. Back in the Cupcake Cottage, I had no less than five bottles of mustard in the fridge at any given time. (I never seemed to remember to get ketchup though…) I was sold.

He went about his way and I went about my grocery shopping. Despite a minor incident involving knocking over a display of granny smiths that required me to fling my body onto the pile of apples to keep them from cascading onto the floor, it was a very regular trip. 

Or so I thought.

I got out into the parking lot about halfway to my car when I *just so happened* *totally coincidentally* *what are the odds?!* to run into Mister Salamiman. I think he actually said:

“Fancy meeting you here.” Like I was Meg Ryan in some awful 90s RomCom. I mean, really.

And then he asked me how my day was. And as a southerner, and generally loud, talkative person, I had to reply. I told him it was my day off from my Awesome Bakery job, and I’d just moved about five months ago from the east coast. I might as well have given him my drivers license and social security number too.

Well turns out, his sister started a company that is in direct competition with the Awesome Bakery (and because they’re a competitor, and also not very good, I will henceforth refer to them as Lame Bakery). So then he had to give me the entire history of Lame Bakery, and how his sister poured her entire life into it, and how Lame Bakery was the most popular bakery ever in this one city he was from. Then Salamiman proceeded to ask me increasingly prying questions about the profit margins and stocks and projected expansion for Awesome Bakery. I felt like Charlie being approached by the Slug Candy guy right after leaving the Wonka Chocolate Factory. Like I would be stupid enough to give secret information to someone who just announced how evil Awesome Bakery is?

Though I guess I was stupid enough to stop in the middle of the parking lot to converse with a stranger.

Moreover, I have no idea about financial thingamabobs. I mostly work at the cash register and try not to knock over trays of fresh baked goods. I think he finally realized he wouldn’t get anywhere with me when he asked my best guess of how many baked goods we sold in a single day and I replied,

“Probably close to a million. Give or take a few.”

What? I majored in writing, not numbers. I’m not gunning for the position of CFO, that’s for sure.

Somehow, the conversation didn’t awkwardly trail off from there, but actually picked up steam. He grabbed my Achilles Heel of conversation: New York City.

Salami is great. Artisan mustard is even better. But New York City?  I interned there for a summer, and up until March, had been absolutely certain that’s where I would be living and working after graduation. Like any girl growing up watching Sex and the City and wanting to be an actress-writer-director-foodie-journalist, New York City captivated and fascinated me. So of course, I wanted to talk about it.

Mister Salamiman talked at length about the restaurants and clubs he’d opened in his sparkling career. We talked about the nightlife scenes of LA and NYC, and fine dining, and the cultural difference between the two coasts.

And suddenly I realized that this whole situation was really weird. 

Accepting salami from a stranger wasn’t weird. Remeeting in the parking lot wasn’t weird. Fending off prying questions about business secrets wasn’t weird. Talking about the second-best-city-ever (I said it. LA has my heart now.) wasn’t weird. But somehow, fifteen minutes into this conversation that had been strange from the moment it started actually FELT strange.

Maybe I am finally starting to develop an awkwardness radar. Too bad it still sucks.

I made up an excuse about meeting friends for brunch (brunch? I was neither hungover nor able to throw down $30 on pancakes and watery mimosas.) and tried to make a graceful exit. 

Well if the title of this blog is any indication, grace isn’t exactly my forte. 

“Wait!” He said. I waited. (Not exactly sure what I was expecting, but I just couldn’t walk away… that would be RUDE.)

“Is this all just a crazy coincidence… or do you want to go out sometime?” 

I stared at him. 

My face contorted into disgust and confusion, and I was too stunned to speak. GO OUT? But he was so… old. And gross. And talks to girls in parking lots. And has a kid only ten years younger than me. Like… ewww.

However, he mistook my moment of silence for prompting to continue. (Not sure how he misinterpreted my facial expression, but I don’t know how women flirted in the 1950s or whenever he was a youngster.)

“I’m helping open Restaurant X in West Hollywood and it’s a really cool spot… drinks and dancing… I’d love to get to know you best and you like such a fascinating lady…”

Okay. Enough is enough. My eyebrows had risen so high in disbelief that they disappeared into my hairline. I finally processed that this wasn’t a joke, and that I should probably say something to deter him before he tried to take me home with him right then and there.

“Uhh. I have a boyfriend? Sorry. I gotta go.” I was so legitimately confused and appalled at the situation that I didn’t even try to sound convincing. If he could use cliché line to try to pick me up, surely I could use just as trite ones to deter him? Right? And then my mind started to wander into why I had to use the “boyfriend excuse” and it wasn’t even really true, and I was single and alone in LA, and maybe all I could get is creepy old men who open swank restaurants and… 

Nope. Still a creeper.

“Well you can’t blame me for asking, especially with someone as fascinating as you. Have a great brunch.” Really? REALLY. I can blame you for asking, because that’s hella weird. And though I may think I’m fascinating, talking about Washington Square Park is not exactly the height of intellectually stimulating conversation. I turned to go about my way.

Except for one problem.

We just happened to be parked right next to each other. 

We awkwardly walked in the same direction, together apart, until we arrived at our cars. Mister Salamiman turned to me:

“Oh wow, we even parked next to each other. Like it was meant to be. Oh well. I’m sure I’ll see you around, I’m here all the time.”

What sort of parting words are those? Stare-in-your-window, kill-you-in-your-sleep sort of parting words, that’s what. From friendly Dr.Dad-like figure to hinting at serious psychosis in under three minutes. Wowza. I tossed my groceries in the car and gunned it out of the parking lot.

As I drove away, I realized two things:

1) Salami is phallic-shaped. And a meat. Maybe accepting one phallic-shaped meat from a strange man might lead him to believe you would be willing to accept his other… phallic-shaped meat. Gross.

2) I was in such a rush to get away, I left my damn artisan mustard in the cart. And there was no way in hell I was going back for it.