I love you. No, I hate you.

Re below post: everything's fine. We talked it out, both admitting shortcomings and committing to do better. Then we beat the shit out of each other. So it's cool.

I found a pretty neat little website today called the thedailyplate. It's a pretty neat beta site into which you punch in all the food you eat per day, how much exercise you get, and your weight goals. And it tells you how many calories you can still eat to be ok. Except that I eat a million little things per day, like 7 almonds and 5 leftover Sunchips (harvest cheddar yum). And that kind of thing is hard to put in the site. Not hard, exactly, but time-consuming. But maybe this is what THEY want. THEY being the non-fatty type who want others to be less-fatty. Because I can see wanting to eat something and then being like fuck it I don't want to have to log this in.

Or maybe I actually hate this website after all.

This is not a funny post.

I feel like crap. I have approximately 1,852 things to do before Ginny and Paul get here tomorrow and I have been running around like a madman all day today and will continue to do so until I pick them up tomorrow afternoon. So when my boyfriend calls and tries to make funny (read: not funny) jokes about me not being busy at all, I get angry and end the call. Then call back and leave a message about why I am pissed. Then take his call, find out he hasn't listened to the message, get mad and hang up. And steam for a while. But now my steam is condensing into sadness. And I can't concentrate on my shit that I so desperately need to work on. And it sucks. And I realise that sometimes it is easier being alone. Not that I'm going to do anything rash, but it's true for right now.

Thanks for letting me vent and putting up with my bullshit.

I like television.

Especially when I have lots of boring reading to do and I want to procrastinate. Last night, I had about 50 pages to read of horrendously boring motivation theory claptrap, so I decided that it would be a good idea to watch telly and then mute it during commercials and read. So basically a 5:1 telly:reading ratio. Not particularly clever. Cut to me still being up at 130am. Hallucinating. But I couldn't help it! Scrubs was on! I wasn't even aware of this show until it was on for a couple years. And I still haven't figured out when it actually comes on network television. But since it's syndicated now, I don't have to! Plus I have about 4 years of episodes to catch up on, so it's like new!

Even though I find Zach Braff ever-increasingly whiffing of dickhead, he does have good comic timing. And John McGinley is pretty much always spot on. Turk, Carla, the Janitor, Elliot: fantastic. Last night an episode made me laugh out loud. By myself. That's pretty hard to do.

So I give Scrubs props up. I'm a fan. A very, very late fan who doesn't know when it actually comes on. But when I accidentally catch it, I like it!

Welcome, wee one!

I am pleased to present to you my goddaughter, Miss Meaghan Sophia Kelly. She is three days old, 19.5 inches long, and around 7.7 lbs. Her talented and now very tired mother knitted this gorgeous sweater.
Wave and she waves back. With her mitted little paw. To protect her from her teeny little fingernails that can't be cut yet. She sleeps a lot--she has, after all, been through a lot in such a short time. I am visiting her for the first time tonight. See you soon, darling. Love!

Things I just thought about today, okay?

Totally inspired by Elbo's aces post today, I wanted to write something similar. Except the things I thought about were 1) something I used to be obsessed about and no longer am, and 2) something that I was never and have no plans to ever be obsessed about. So it's um, not really the same thing after all. But, as my mother always says, fuck it!*

1) The album OK Computer by Radiohead. I have bought this CD approximately nine times. Every time has been precipitated by a sudden, jerking memory of a song off of it, followed by the complete and utter destruction of my dorm room/apartment/house looking for it, followed by a resigned repurchase. This last time, though, I found it hiding behind the sunshade in my car. Naughty OK Computer!

This album fucking rules because of, and I'll just put it out there, track 5. Let Down is one of the most heartbreakingly tearsmashingly soulrippingly amazing songs ever written. It has seen me through some times, my friends, and it is aural beauty, plain and simple. Clearly, the rest of the album doesn't suck by a long stretch, but oh. Let Down. I was playing it during my errands at lunch and had to fight the urge to not go back to the office and drive around all day. And smoke pot. And wear thrift-store clothing. And too much lipstick. Good times.

2) Movies are so expensive to rent these days. So I find myself buying films that I wouldn't ordinarily purchase because it costs 53 more cents than renting it. And I would probably return it late, so I am likely saving money in the long run.

Anyway. I purchased Thank You for Smoking during one of these vid sto trips the other day. And after watching it in silence, I thought, "Eh." Immediately afterwards, I thought, "I bet this film has a lot of deleted scenes." Sure enough, it had approximately 900. I suspected this, because it just seemed so disjointed and not very connectedy. This is a technical film term that I learned from my years on the international cinema circuit. Great cast. Interesting premise. It just didn't. . . it just didn't. Shame. But now I have it forever to watch again and again!

I also bought Young Adam, a film with Ewan McGregor and Tilda Swinton that has some of the most sexually charged scenes in a well-made film that I've seen in a while. So if you're needing some sexy time but don't feel like shilling out for the purid porn again, I highly recommend it. You know who you are.

*Ann Quin would never say this, how dare you.

Classic. Dork.

So I'm on Spring Break. Woo Spring Break! Sping Bake! Rustle me up a beer bong and a joint! Clothe me in a string bikini and . . . nothing! Date rape me and leave me unconscious in an alley in Mexico! Spring. . . break. Hmm.

So what Spring Break really means is that I am still at work like normal, but I don't have to go to class this week, do any homework, or stress about the homework that I'm not doing. So it's really not very exciting at all.

But because I always have to be wired up about something, I made a massive to-do list to capture all the things I have been putting off for the last couple of months because of school. To organise it all, I put the list into excel, adding columns for due date and status so that I can effectively sort and update the action items.

Instantly, I felt the cloak of social awkwardness envelop me like an old friend. My netherparts shivered as though I had never been laid. My glasses grew into hornrims and a plastic protector sprang from my pocket.

But I am embracing my nerdiness because I love typing "Complete" into a row of something I have done. And yes, I did think about creating a drop-down menu of options instead, like "Not started" or "In Progress." And yes, I still may do it. My list is up to 36 rows. I told you I had a lot of shit to do. And yes, get a life is on it. So shuuuuuuuuuuuuurup!

Heart-exploding l'amour!

So I don't talk about my boyfriend a lot on this blog. Because he's an asshole.

No, he's not. He's lovely and wonderful and funny and smart and handsome and all that crap. Still, I try to leave all the vomity sentiment off of this blog. Because I know you will be insanely jealous and, in a stubborn stance of green-eyed defiance, stop reading the good old Cup of Pizza. And I can't have that. Until today. Because today, my boyfriend wrote a song for me. And it's called, "Eat Shit."

I will pause for a collective sigh of vicarious ecstasy.

Rewind: I realised on the way into the office this morning that I had forgotten my mobile. So when I got in, I rang Rob to let him know this and that he would only be able to contact me on the office line today and after that he was out of luck. He was, at the very best, underwhelmingly nonplussed. But I didn't think much about it until I got back from a meeting and had a voicemail from him. This voicemail wanted to let me know that he had forgotten his personal mobile and that the only way to reach him was via his work mobile. And it was dripping. with. sarcasm.

Rang the brother back and pointed out that when he can't get ahold of me, he has a tendency to whinge like a small infant. And he shot back, "Know what my favourite song is right now? It's called 'Eat Shit.'" And then he sang it for me:

Verse 1:
If your first name is Eleanor
And your last name is Quin
Eat shit!

Chorus:
Eat shit!
Eat shit!
Eat shit!

So Rob, 1, Eleanor, 937,322,705. But purely for a quick wit and catching me slightly off-guard. . . my songwriting skills are CLEARLY superior. Natch.

My lovely little Ginblossom

Yay! Ginny is coming! My beloved friend Gin just emailed me her itinerary--she and husband Paul are coming for a weekend in March. They live in DC in an amazing house with 2 wonderful boxers. The dogs, not pugilists. Gin is my best and oldest friend. We met at the end of my freshman year in college. That night we got drunk and ran around in the ocean. Friends forever! She is one of my favourite people in the world and I am proud to be her friend. So I dedicate this post to the one I love.

Here is Ginny on one of her last visits to the ATL, pretending like this is her car. This would, in fact, decidedly NOT be her car.
Fact: Ginny has a near-obsession with wearing matching bra and panties. She also used to have a nose ring. Now she has a wedding ring. I know because I was her maid of honour. The maid of honour who got drunk and broke into the pool at the reception with the best man and went skinny-dipping.

This is Ginny standing over a vent in a parking lot. I love that she looks so pretty and dainty and her hair is going WHOOOOOOOOOOOOSH!!!

Fact: Ginny lived in Italy and Spain for a couple of years--I went to visit her in Perugia when I was living in London and we had an amazing time running around and eating ourselves into an oblivion. Toward the end of the trip, I got a stomach ulcer from too much espresso. Gin got her hair tangled in the hair dryer and I had to cut it out. I took a picture first. Then, we missed the train going back to Rome meaning that I missed my flight back to London and I had to sleep in the airport on a table.

This last shot is Ginny dancing in my hall with a purple boa. It's blurry but I love it. Looking at it I can remember her smiling and shimmying around and saying cha cha cha!
Cha cha cha indeed. I love her. Mwah!

Why did the maestro pound the piano keys? Because he wanted them to b-flat.

NPR had a neat little story on Morning Edition this morning. It was all about the weird, cosmic effect that b-flat has on the universe. Like that it makes alligators go batshit and black holes hum it for skillions of years. You can read all about it here.

Interesting story, but they missed probably the greatest use of b-flat of all time.

And that is, of course . . .as the super secret super spy secret password from JUMPIN' JACK FLASH!!!!
Jumpin' Jack Flash! It's not even Jumping, it's JUMPIN"!!!!! What a great movie. Whoopi! With her giant toothbrush! The mannish German woman doing calesthenics on her computer! The trick chair in the office! A slutty Carole Kane! A not-dead Phil Hartman! Lady Sarah, in her little pink sheets in her little pink room! Shitty breadsticks! Jack, you sheeeet!

Clearly I own this movie on DVD.

I think I'm going to watch it tonight.

ps. I totally just made up that joke in the post title. Be honest, it was kinda good.

Yipperdee skipperdee doo

Yay! The reunion tour for The Police was announced today! I'm very excited, even though ATL dates have not been announced. Surely they couldn't resist the chance to make even more money by skipping over our fair city. Chicago, I note, is already on the line-up, so shizz. . . I MAY BE COMING UP, CLAIRE!!!!

Whenever I think of the Police, I'm reminded of the story of one of the Fowler girls, pulling up next to Sting's limo in the early 80s in Holland and he flipped them off. Good times.

I was reading about the concert announcement on cnn.com, and I got to the bottom and noticed this ABSOLUTE BOMBSHELL:

"Additionally, the Australian-New Zealand band Crowded House plans to end a 10-year hiatus once a replacement is found for late drummer Paul Hester."

HOLY CRAP!

Now that's news! v v v v v v v excited to see Crowded Hizzouse. Did you notice in the above pic that they misspelled Neil Finn's name? After all, he is only THE LEAD SINGER.

In other news, Phil Collins is rejoining Genesis and David Lee Roth is touring with Van Halen. SNOOOOOOORE!!!

STREET FIGHT!!!

So last Wednesday I got into a bit of a verbal altercation. With a complete stranger. Over a parking spot. Allow me to explain.

I was hurring to the downtown campus for my Corporate Finance midterm. I resolutely ABHOR paying for parking at that time of day, so I had my eyeballs peeled for a street spot. A street spot! I spied one, signalled, and began reversing into the spot.

To my surprise, the car behind me had someone still in it who moved up as I was backing up into the spot. I slammed on the brakes and honked my horn. He honked his. We sat there, silent. I put the car in reverse again. He honked his horn again. I still needed about a foot and a half to go. I got out to have a look. We were almost 2 feet apart and he had about FOUR FEET between his car and the curb behind him. The curb, even! Not another car! The curb! Below is a visual for your complete understanding of the situation:

Okay, before we continue, I have to point out an error in my graphic above--I was still jutting out into the entrance of a parking garage, so I still needed to back up about a foot. I apologise to my readers for submitting what is clearly an inadequate visual aid.

Anyway, I say to the guy:

Me: Hey, will you move back about another foot? I'm still in the road and I need to back up a little more.

Jackass: Naw. If I move back, you're gonna block me in and I won't be about to get out.

Me: (mind boggling at his terrible sense of spatial depth perception) Sir, I promise you will still have plenty of room to get out if you just back up a little more--you have plenty of room!

Jackass: (snorts in semi-positive way)

So I get back in the car, start to back up very slowly, and he puts his car in gear, and . . . CREEPS FORWARD and taps me! I leap out of the car and look at our bumpers. No damage. Now he has his window rolled up and is pretending to be on the phone.

Me: Sir! SIR! You have plenty of room! I am not going to block you in! You still have FOUR FEET behind you. Do not hit my motherfucking car you motherfucking asshole!

I did not say this last sentence out loud. Instead, I backed up a couple more inches so I was juuuuuust inside the curb, got out, took a picture of the distance between our cars (cameraphone), then took a picture of his license plate.

As I was doing this, he rolled down his window and said something like:

Jackass: Okay, I'm going to follow (photo?) your car one day.

Me: What does that even mean?

Jackass: (silence)

Keep in mind that I am trying to make it to class for an exam. So I heave my bag and get going. And instantly regret this stand of defiance. For the next 2.5 hours I fret and worry and squirm about three main scenarios:

1. Windows smashed
2. Entire body keyed
3. Car completely gone

What did I learn? This was not a battle worth picking. I felt like I aged 9 years during that class. Afterwards, I spotted my car up the block with immense relief. Then I saw his car still parked behind mine. Was he lying in wait for me? Armed, I'm sure? Would this be the end? I waited until a big, tall guy walked by and then I walked next to him back to my car. He wasn't in the car at all. My car wasn't touched.

Pussy.

Well blow me down! Um, actually don't please.

So guess what?

After all my pissing and moaning and whinging and wining and carrying on and huffing and puffing and grousing and griping and cursing and complaining, guess what?

I got a promotion.

Ha ah ah aha ha ah ah aha hah ha haha ha ha but it's true. My boss told me this morning. So I'm feeling pretty good right about now. Not-so-coincidentally, my frustration level today is fairly low. And I've noticed that I've been slightly nicer to people. Looks like this kind of shit actually works!

In sad-but-true news: you're the first person I'm telling. Rang Rob and he was having some kind of construction crisis and had to go before I could tell him. Rang my parentals and had to leave a message. How dare they be out at a moment like this. Anyway, yay for me?

Get ready for lameness!

Still in foul mood. Need to get some coffee (CAFFEINE!!!), but I'm hold with a vendor right now. And I need them to give me something, so I'm just going to wait.

Today's frustration level: pretty high. People are morons and I am kicking myself for not bringing my textbook for class tonight with me. Because we never use it. Except for tonight! Which I just realised approx 20 minutes ago. Grr. But people are still morons.

Ah! Time has passed. I got off the phone, got my coffee, and got spat on. By the creamer. We have the single-serv mini-cups (in four delicious flavours, no less) and they always burp out like that when you open them. A couple of precious supersweet drops on your hand or thumb. Once a supersweet superdrop actually made it on to my forearm. That one had heart.

This post is officially ridiculous. Fuck it, my favourite kind is hazelnut.

Well, helloooo there!

Check, please.

God diggity damn, am I in a bad mood today.

What? You want to hear all about it? OKAY!!!

Here goes: the number one reason is that it is annual compensation planning time at my company right now. You say, anna what? The time of year where the managers evaluate performance and allot raises accordingly, etc. Except. They don't. I'm seeing such crappy, piss-poor decision-making going on right now and it's all happening like a veeeery slow car crash that won't actually end for another couple of weeks. I'm taking about a skillion calls and emails because people don't read instructions, don't care about instructions, or don't realise there are instructions. I've got HR managers who aren't doing their jobs and thus failing their responsibilities. I've got a company trying to throw money at a situation instead of dealing with its problems. Which is creating huge problems since we are in year 3 of serious underperformance and that money hasn't been earned. But no one is being held accountable and the finger-pointing is rampant. And it just sucks. And it makes me not want to work here. And it makes my brief delight at being rated exceptional this year rapidly dissipate, since an asshole I work with who is excellent at jackshit just fooled his boss into getting the same rating.

And I think: What does it all mean? Who am I? What am I doing here?

And I remember: Ah yes, my company is paying for my MBA degree. It is my mantra. My beacon in a vast and stormy sea of shit. It's what keeps me going sometimes. But not today. Today I think it is going to require a little rebellion. An uprising of sorts. A veritable nose-thumbing at it all. Translation: I'm going to drink heavily. Hopefully soon. My liver must pay the price that my brain can no longer afford! Hurrah!

Self-destruction, here I come!

Add to list: Composer

So I made up this song late last year called You're Driving Me Nuts. I composed it in the late morning hours of 2 December 2006. How do I remember with such startling accuracy the precise moment of its genesis, you ask? Well, it was the morning that I was running around the house desperately trying to get my things together for a week-long business trip up to freezing motherfucking ass Chicago. And while I am tearing around, lugging my broken suitcase from basement, finding matching socks, cramming 3 oz toiletries into clear bag for bloody security compliance, et cetera et al, my parents. Let's just stop right there for a second.

My parents. Let me just make a really long story really short and say that at this point, my parents had been living with me in the house for three months. Day and night. Sleeping in the next room. My father either rooted in front of the laptop or hovering 3 feet away from me AT ALL TIMES. My mother, either blessedly sleeping, running me down in the hallway with her wheelchair, or getting me to fetch her water or tissues. Three months. So I was already a little tense.

So I'm packing like a madman but at every step, with every pair of undies packed, with every precious minute ticking by, an interruption. Like my dad, with the always-classic, I'm looking for something that I left right in this exact spot in the study three years ago and now somebody's bloody moved it! Have you seen it? No. Keep packing. My mother's voice, warbling from her room. Eleanor, come here for a second. I go. She throws 25 lbs* of drapery at me to pack in suitcase to give to Claire. Throw them on the pile. Keep packing. Go to kitchen for Ziploc bags. Dad scares the hell out of me by popping out of the basement door and asks me to help him hold the ladder while he trims a tree in the front lawn. I bellow I DON'T HAVE TIME and he shoots me wounded, betrayed look and nicks off.

At this moment is when the song begins to form. I write in in my head for the rest of the day and perform it for Claire when I land at Midway. And here it goes:

Chorus:
You're driving me nuts!
You're driving me nuts!
You're driving me driving me driving me driving me driving me driving me nuts!
REPEAT

Verse 1:
It's easy, it's simple
It's elemental
You're making me crazy!
You're making me mental!
Because. . .

Repeat Chorus

And that was the end of it for a while. But lately I have been working on Verse 2. I premiered a version of it yesterday afternoon to Claire over the phone. She listened and delivered the verdict: too many syllables. So I retooled it and came up with this:

Verse 2:
O how I've tried
to make it plain
I'm going loopy!
Completely insane!
That. . .

Repeat Chorus

Please let me know how much you enjoy it. Detractors not welcome.

*not an exaggeration, I had to pay excess baggage at the airport.

I just don't know what to do with myself

Yikesy. The lovely Elbo added me as a link to her fabulous blog, Discombombulation Station. See? I'm right down under the blogs-she-reads-everyday header. On the left. Lower. Keep scrolling. Below the pics, keep going. Lower. Right below the recently-updated-weblogs area. There! See? PRIME REAL ESTATE!

The point is, this puts the heat on me to update this thing. Regularly. Which I think was ALL PART OF HER EVIL PLAN IN THE FIRST PLACE! And it's totally working. I mean, I can eaaaaasily let down my dearest friends and family members, but vaguely disappoint an anonymous blog surfer? UNACCEPTABLE!

I'm yelling a lot in this post. Clearly I have a lot of pent-up anger. CLEARLY.

On a complete-180-utterly-non-sequitur-non-sequitur, I'm leaving the office now to go to a funeral. For reals. R.I.P., Ralphie. He was a good man.

This blog is a no-gay zone.

Know how I know you're gay? I don't. Know how I know my sisters are gay? See below.

As you know by now, I blogged for the first time in 932 years the other day. Upon preparing myself for another post, I happened to notice that I received 4 comments on the original-932-year-etc one. And I thought, well how very neat. Until I read them. Witness the gayness for yourself with my bonus real-time reactions in italics!

4 Comments:
At 12:32 PM, M&P's Favorite*I immediately knew this was Claire said...
i, too, longed daily for a new entry to appear...months of waiting and unquenched thirst for minutiae. and now, at long last, rewarded with a scintillating expose on the harsh reality of donning natural fibers. poetry. sheer poetry. excuse me while i put on a anne murray record and weep into my brandy snifter. *pretty damn gay, but kind of sweet
At 12:30 PM, Anonymous said...
This was indeed worth waiting for. I can't wait for the next entry, due around July, *shurrup. in which you excoriate*I immediately knew this was Leah a Birkenstock for being clunky. You've been railing about raw silk smell since I dared wear it around you in about 1992.*That's fucking right, biz! Nasty shit! Get over it or get rid of it. Better still, give it to me! *Fast becoming her stock response in fervent attempts to usurp my wardrobe. Believe me, she is weeeeelcome to this sweater.
At 4:41 PM, M & P's Favorite said...
A) leah, don't even bother being "anonymous" b/c only you would reply to a blog using 'excoriate'*Totally nailed it, nice one.
B) if el does decide to blog about her birkenstocks, it will include descriptions of pong akin to a thousand raw silk sweaters left soaking in vinegar and recently unearthed from a sulfur pit *I can't argue with this, really. The first rule created by my freshman year roommate was that the Birks had to go immediately into the closet once they were off my feet.
At 8:30 AM, Prolix*Again, dead giveaway for Leah said...
Hmmm... thought I had to be anonymous if I didn't have a Google account. Evidently not. I revel in my new assumed identity! *aaaand, gay.

But, I hear you ask, who are these people, really? Well, my sister Claire:

Ha haha ha ha ha h ah ah ha ha h aha haaa I had to have a reason to post that picture again. This, as you will recall, this is actually the friend of an old workmate of mine. I just had to put this picture up again. It fills me with such delight. Evil, evil delight!

To play fair, here is one of my favourite pictures of Leah, juuuuust realising that the writing was done in chalk. Pesky, very transferable chalk. Bwah ha ha ha!

And, scene.

O Happy Day!!!!

Holy shiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiit, I'm posting!

I'm really just doing this for my sister Leah, who mentioned a few days ago that she STILL CHECKS MY SITE FOR UPDATES. This despite the fact that I have not updated since AUGUST OF 2006. Her loyalty and dedication to my blog brought a tiny tear to my eye. Just the tiniest of tinies.

So a new year. And, yet, the same old fucking problems. Case in point: the sweater I am wearing right now. It is a gold silk lovely from Banana Republic that I bought a couple of years ago. I love it. It looks really good. I can't bring myself to get rid of it. But. it. fucking. stinks. And I'm not talking the sickly-sweet-nasty-ass-raw-silk-smell that I do truly despise and almost gag when I get a whiff, I'm talking about. . . a more. . . . organic pong.

I noticed this problem around this time last year, when I was sitting in my MicroEcon class. Naturally, I spent the entire class shooting poison eyes at everyone around me. . . until I realised that I was the pong originator. Horrified, I banished the sweater to the laundry room, where it sat for most of 2006 until I decided what to do with it. Finally, off to Avondale Cleaners where I asked the guy to do anything and everything to get the pong out. He immediately replied that he could make no guarantees. I said, well just try. And he said, no promises. And I said, OKAY, just see what you can do. And he said, pick it up Thursday.

This was a few weeks ago. And I am wearing it today. And the guy was right: he could make no guarantees or promises. Because the funk is still there. I have been walking around with my arms stiff at my sides like an android all day. Now I know you think I am being ridiculous and thinking oh just get rid of it already but if you saw it. . . I just looked down and realised that there are drops of my Thai noodle I had for lunch all over it. I don't know how many people have seen (and smelt) me today.

It's fucking out of here.

To be fair

K hasn't posted since 13 July. FACE!

Madly straightening up the place

I have the feeling like when a friend/acquaintance/rogue Spanish lover is on your way over to your house unexpectedly and you spend frantic minutes picking up clothes and papers and used tissues and whatnot just to get things somewhat presentable for your guest. As to offer a great departure to the rathole you normally live in. Why? Because Elbo might be reading this blog now! And I don't want her to see the crappy post that has been sitting here for OVER ONE MONTH NOW.

So basically that's a big screw-off to all (read: two) my faithful COP readers who have gotten dick-all for their patience.

As a consolation, would you like to be my rogue Spanish lover?

No?

Would you like me to tell you that I am very sorry and it meant nothing to me and it was only because I was obliteratedly hopelesslytatedly schnookered and I promise baby baby I'll never slap you around again and just to show you how serious I am here are some flowers that I bought just special for you with a little teddy bear with them because I know how much you like teddy bears huh baby huh?

No?

Well, I just don't know how to please you anymore.