I feel bad for not writing anything in a while

Note to self: amazing Ethiopian food + Nutella crêpe + cheap beer = bad times. Nothing too horrible, but I definitely wouldn't recommend it.

This weekend kind of seemed like a last hurrah, since I envision being chained to my laptop at the library for the next few months until my memoir is done. We went out for dinner on Friday and, man, did I forget how delicious Ethiopian food is. If you're in Paris and you want some food with real flavor and spice, Godjo is the place to go. It's small, the kitchen is about the size of my bathroom, and if you're more than two people, you should reserve a table a good day in advance. We were nine, so obviously, we learned our lesson from the first time we tried to get in. They sat us in the basement, which I didn't even know existed. A couple of cow-hide covered couches lined the walls with woven tables and little wooden stools dispersed around; Ethiopian art adorned the walls and music piped in softly, but was quickly drowned out as soon as we started talking. The food was... well, I guess I don't need to repeat it. It was good. Really good. Spicy beef and chicken, lentils and green beans and carrots, even beef tartar (which we inadvertently ordered and hesitantly ate - delicious, in case you were wondering), all on this spongy bread that soaks it all up. There wasn't much left, let me tell you. And what there was left was gradually picked over until the plate was everything but licked clean. When someone moved the bowl of tartar and discovered there was more bread underneath, it was like finding out you had two more Petit écoliers left than you thought. (If you don't know what those are, please go find out, as they will change your life. No, really. Go. Now. Finish reading this, then go.)

Anyways, we headed over to Mouffetard to get a crêpe, and I was feeling pretty damn full. But who can resist a hot Nutella crêpe? Oh man. I got two bites into that thing and knew I should've stopped. But I'm a stubborn little bitch, so I kept going at it, finally realizing, with two bites left, that there was no way I could, in good conscience, finish it and feel good about myself later when I was throwing it up in some sketchy seatless bar bathroom. So I tossed the precious gooey dessert and headed with my friends to get a drink. That was the problem, I think. Being in a crowded bar on a Friday night, trying to hold and/or drink your beer with people rubbing up against you, groping you without even knowing or trying, all the while trying to digest what could reasonably be considered a meal for four. I do have to say, though, the new anti-smoking legislation has helped a great deal. I remember going into that place in October just for a second to check for some people - I was in there maybe thirty seconds - and I came out reeking of Marlboro lights. Now it just smelled like pheremones and sweat. I'm still trying to figure out which one I prefer.

We ended up hanging out there for a little while, eventually talking to some Spanish guys that seemed pretty nice. A friend was trying to get me talking to one of them, which she eventually did, but as soon as she left and a Rage Against the Machine song came on, he was jumping around with his friends and soon hitting on other girls in the front of the bar.

Ok, so banal daily happenings aside, I don't have much else. I know, I know. I keep saying I'll have things to talk about, and I really don't. However, I have discovered that the walls of my apartment are thinner than I thought. I've always been able to hear loud laughing and the music my neighbor blasts (which, oddly enough, mostly consists of chorals and classical, and sometimes Django), but never have I actually been able to confirm the rumor that he has a girlfriend. Well, my friends... Rumor confirmed. Now I know why I hear him open the door almost every night around 10 and music turned up to 11.

Just another to add to the list of Parisian hypocrisies. If everyone wants to be so private, would it kill them to build walls a bit more soundproof? I mean, I could hear them breathing, and I was on my bed, not against that wall, watching TV with the sound up fairly high. Seriously, people. Get it together. I was always scared people in the stairwell could hear it when I use the bathroom, but now I'm even more paranoid and am doing all but risking kidney infections to keep the noise level down.

I do have more things to write about, things that have happened and pissed me off (as usual), but it's late and I haven't had a good night's sleep in a while, so I think I'm going to try to drift off into Hot Guys on the Metro Land before my neighbor turns his music up. This weekend I'm going to Dublin with my dad, and hopefully when I come back from that and things quiet down a little, I'll actually be able to think and string together some coherent sentences. Until then, merci et bonne nuit!

I want my MTV.

I finally have a working television! Well... kind of. It didn't work when I first plugged it in a week ago, and finally this week a guy comes over, completely unannounced, while I'm still in my PJ's, when my apartment looks like noman's land between Dust Bunny forces and the Hamper brigade, to fix it. He even brought a box for me to get more channels! I know. I didn't even ask for it. That's how awesome my landlord is. And apparently, this guy (not the landlord) is also in charge of fixing my bathroom, which still boasts exposed pipes and a lemon-fresh, moldy stench (the lemon is a mystery to me). According to him, it will be fixed next week when he comes back to fix the cable in my apartment. Oh, about that.

One of the particularities of Parisian apartments, especially the smaller ones, is that they were once larger units that somewhere along the line, probably in the 50s and 60s, were hacked up into little closets they like to call studios. This explains all the galley kitchens and oddly-placed toilets, not to mention my cable hookup, which apparently was never brought through to the bedroom, where the jack is. For the moment, the cord is still coiled up and attached to the ceiling of the water closet, and while it may be many a person's dream to have a TV hooked up in the John, I'd really rather it be in the bedroom, where I can watch it without feeling like I'm committing some sort of crime against social norms. The toilet-fixer guy said he would also wire up the cable so I can hook up the box and not have to use the ghetto makeshift antenna he fashioned out of some of that coiled up cable and twisty-ties.
And while I'm still tempted to believe it's not actually for free, and that somehow I'm going to have a mysterious amount of money taken out of my security deposit after all this is done, I'm still glad they're being nice about it, and also that I didn't have to jump through hoops to get them to offer.

I'm sorry I don't have anything more interesting to talk about. I really should bitch about school some more, since it's gradually but forcefully taking over my life, but I'm just so distracted by the sophomoric shows on French TV that I just can't concentrate! Now instead of sitting hunched over at my computer dicking around all the time, I'll be sitting in bed watching second-rate French movies and dubbed Hitchcock.

Tomorrow night we're going for Ethiopian food. It had better be delicious, because I've been talking this place up for the better part of a month, and it's been a while since I've been there. But considering we couldn't get a table last time we tried to go, I'd say we're in for a good meal.

Man, my life really is boring. You know it's bad when the most exciting things happening are a ghetto makeshift antenna and the prospect of good ethnic food.

Oh! Just one other thing. I'm going to be writing for a new blog, SASSY, as a guest contributor. I'm still not entirely sure what that means, but I'm just going with it. My first post won't be until April, but I thought I'd let you know in case you wanted to check it out, because it's a cool concept and I really do have faith in it. So please check it out (once it's up and running) and if you're on facebook, join the group!

V-Day, hold the V

I know. Two posts in one day? Don't get used to it. Once I get sucked back into the time vacuum of academia, you won't be hearing from me this frequently.

Well, it's that time again. A lot of people who read this and know me (or hell, even if they don't), are probably expecting some embittered, irate rant about how Valentine's Day sucks and should be renamed Singles Awareness Day or die. Sorry to disappoint, but it's not happening this year. I go into this, my twenty-second V-Day without a V, rather ambivalent towards the whole thing. You see, in Paris, every day is Valentine's Day - or at least it seems like it - and no one makes too big a deal about buying a big bouquet of roses or a heart-shaped box of chocolates or the perfect greeting card or making any other outlandish gesture of affection on February 14. There are signs and posters in store windows saying things like "Do something special for your St. Valentin," and I even saw something of that nature in the basement of BHV - the mother of all department stores - in the hardware section implying that what he really wants for Valentine's Day is a new electric screwdriver. But what he really, really wants is that skimpy little red and black number in the window of DIM lingerie down the street. Same price, twice the fun.

My point is that, although they do recognize the holiday, it hasn't become another annual sacrifice to the consumer gods like Halloween or Easter. I mean, shit, even I hand out candy on Easter. But France has resisted somewhat to the call for sappy red and pink cards and those little saccharin hearts with words written on them. My main theory behind this is, like I said before, that here, V-Day is just another in a string of 365 days where expressing your love for someone doesn't need a reason or specific time. Come on, this is France. Making love is a national pastime, just after drinking wine and smoking yourself to death and cheating on your significant other. Well, there's no real order to it, but love is kind of like an instinct here. I don't know how they did it, but I've yet to meet a French man or woman that hasn't had some sort of torrid love affair or isn't in a long-term, committed relationship. Oh, I'm sure they exist. And I'm also sure they're ashamed of it and commiserate while downing a bottle of Bordeaux and lighting up a pack of Gaulois. I mean, really, what self-respecting Frenchie hasn't ever loved and doesn't know how? In a country that produces some of the most gorgeous people I've ever seen and speaks one of the sexiest languages around (although I'd also argue Spanish and Italian's case for that one), how can you not have been in love at some point in your life?

And so, Paris is constantly filled with lip-locking, cuddling, bordering-on-fornicating couples, none the least bit concerned with who sees them and what they may think of them. I once saw, in the jardin des Tuileries, a couple in their early forties, dressed for work and walking hand in hand stop to kiss in the middle of a row of trees. While making out, the man put his briefcase down to hold her with both hands. And they stayed like that for a good few minutes. They were probably both married to different people, as a lunchtime make-out session in the middle of a garden are what I'd assume a rarity in monotone married life, but still - you can't deny the romance in it. And that happens every day, all over the city. In parks, in movie theaters, on the street, in the metro, in a fucking bowling alley. No one has any shame when it comes to public displays of affection, it seems. Maybe it all goes back to when kings would parade around their mistresses?

But then again, it's private life on display, but you can't ask any questions about it. No, no. That would be entirely too presumptuous of you. But go ahead, keep playing tonsil hockey while I'm crammed up against the door behind you in the metro. No, really, I don't mind the noises and the sight of your tongues wrestling each other in a pool of saliva. Please, continue, by all means. I mean, really, it's fine to a certain degree, but once you start doing things that make me want to shield the eyes of children passing by, you should really just get a room or find some darkened alley or something. I hear the rue du chat qui pêche is quite lovely this time of year.

Tonight, instead of wearing black and getting blazingly drunk with my friends in protest of this commercialized excuse to tell someone you may or may not actually care about that you love them (not that I even could if I wanted to, since I'm pretty much the only single person I know here), I'm going to be productive. I'm going to translate those three pages I need to for Monday, make myself dinner, and try not to feel sad that I'm going on nearly a quarter of a century without a Valentine.

It's going to be a long semester.

First and foremost, we've got to talk about school. It's been a huge debate for decades - whether or not the benefits of socialized education trump its downfalls, or at least enough to gain superiority over privatized education. I've gone over it for hours in my head and aloud with other students and French people, and everyone comes up with the same bland arguments. And I get it. Public education is great because it's virtually free, there aren't really any requirements to get in, and there's a relatively big variety of subjects to choose from. However - and that's a monumental 'however', because it's free, because anyone can go, because there's so much to choose from, you end up with classes filled with unmotivated students who don't do their work, talk through class, and throw things at each other. Seriously. It feels like I'm back in high school, because that's kind of what it is. The professor wasted half an hour of a one and a half hour class by taking roll, handing back papers, and yelling at students. Only a third of the class was actually usefull, but it's not like I could've taken notes on anything, even if I wanted to, because the girls next to me were giggling like idiots and cursing the professor under their breath. YOU'RE IN COLLEGE. Shut your trap and learn. The professor even had to go on that whole "I'm just here to guide you, you have to do the work" spiel after she'd learned that almost no one did the assignment from last week. Look, if you don't want to be there, leave. But if you don't want to end up at Monoprix, Quick or the ubiquitous MacDo, grow up, go to class, and shut the fuck up while everyone's trying to take notes.

I do have to say, kids at Paris IV are better than at Paris III, which I don't completely understand. Education in France is basically free. I'm pretty sure students can go wherever they want in the public system once they choose a field of study. So do all of the slackers just mysteriously end up at Paris III, and the studious ones at Paris IV? Or maybe it's a Darwinian process. I'm going with that option, considering the hell you have to go through to get registered and find your classes. The system is such a bureaucratic nightmare, full of red tape, forms, and insupportable women at the 8,004 different registrars who never want to help you. Thankfully, we American students don't really count, so this time I didn't have to register. Instead, I'm kind of just flying under the radar, so as far as Paris III and IV are concerned, I don't really even exist. It's so much easier that way. I didn't have to get in line at 8 in the morning to register, only to find all the classes I wanted to take were closed. But that's not really interesting, so let's talk about something else.

Now, could someone tell me what coked-out, sadistic 18th century architect designed the ridiculously confusing and frustrating labyrinth that is the Sorbonne? And then tell me whose idea it was to block off half the hallways so you have to go up and down three stairwells - and three flights each, mind you - just to find the right hallway? I must admit, it's nice going to school in a place like the Sorbonne, someplace that's been around for so long and really feels like an institution, in the non mental asylum sense of the word. It kind of makes me feel like I go to Hogwarts, and it definitely reminds me that I'm in France, that I'm in a 1300 year old city with traditions and a set way of life. And when I emerge from that legendary cour d'honneur in the fifth, I feel a bit more like I belong and finally like one of the cool kids. Well, that is, until a girl at Paris III literally points and laughs at me while I'm waiting for the elevator and manages, in a matter of milliseconds, to undo every bit of self-therapy and confidence building I've done for the past ten years.

Basically the story goes like this: My friend and I were waiting for the coffin they like to call an elevator, which is supposed to hold three people at a time. Why they couldn't put in an elevator that actually serves its purpose is beyond me - it's a relatively modern building, so there aren't any tiny, narrow, spiraling staircases to negotiate (unlike my apartment building). Anyways, a group of three girls came up, and one of them got in line while another went for the stairs dragging the other along. The one behind me in line said, "You don't want to wait for the elevator?" The bitch at the stairs replied, while laughing and pointing, "Are you kidding? Look!" In all fairness, she could have just been referring to the line, and not the fact that it would take an extra trip since I could most likely only take one person with me on the way up. But judging by the awkward silence around me, and how people tried to politely look away as if they hadn't heard a thing, I don't think that was what she meant. It shouldn't have done anything to me. I should've just rolled my eyes and scoffed, thinking to myself, making a list of all the reasons I was better than her. But then it happened. My friend and I got into the elevator, then someone else came in, and the weight bell went off. The last woman got out and a lighter person got in. It rang again. The same awkward silence, the same awkward elevator ride up to the fourth floor. At first, I was upset. Kids weren't even that cruel in middle school! Or in elementary school, for that matter. I was distracted all through class and started a downward spiral of self analysis and pity. But then the professor said something that pissed me off, and I had a new reason to be angry. In a nutshell, when my friend and I went to introduce ourselves to her, she told us we weren't good enough, that usually she discourages American students from taking the class because it's too hard for them since French isn't their first language. I don't think she got that we were Masters students, that we speak the language pretty damn well, and that we're both working on translation for our theses - even after we told her all that. Yeah. And you think I have a superiority complex? HA.

I've noticed that a lot, you know. Here, teachers focus on the negative instead of the positive. I don't really know why, but I'm pretty sure it contributes to the lack of motivation on the students' part. Who wants to give a shit if you're just going to get bitched at anyways? The rule here is that you can never get 100%; you can never be perfect. On a scale of 20, 18 is considered the highest grade. They say that the best students will get 18, the professor, 19, and only God is capable of scoring 20. I've actually seen negative scores on dictations and translations. So, again, when you set your students up to think they're never going to be great, why would they want to try? Especially since you can't even express your opinion as a student... but that's a different story, entirely.

Now, I'm not saying the American system is perfect. Obviously, our universities and colleges leave much to be desired when it comes to accommodating everybody. They're over-selective, over-priced, and, in some cases, over-rated. Sometimes I agree with Will: "You dropped a hundred and fifty grand on a fuckin' education you coulda got for a dollah fifty in late chahges at the public library." But then I remember that I'm a lazy brat and a product of that hundred and fifty grand education and I come to my senses and realize that nothing is true for everybody. When the Dalai Lama came to Smith last year, someone asked, "What's the best way to raise kids?" He laughed and said, "First let me have some kids, then I'll get back to you." But then he went on and said that that was a very Western way of thinking, trying to figure out the best way to do something, the easiest route to happiness. And it's true. It's diplomatic and evasive, but it's true. The free system works for some people, while others, like me, need a little (expensive) push from the establishment.

But I still maintain, Western or not, those Paris III girls need to keep their mouths shut before I go angry, bitter fat girl on their asses and sit on their petite, frail, muscle-less French bodies. You know I'll do it.

Devour? Really?

So, we all knew that the whole thing about me trying to stop bitching wasn't really going to last, right? Bitching is pretty much my natural way of life, and who am I to try to deny Mother Nature what is rightfully hers? Exactly. I'm glad you followed me on that one.

This weekend felt good. The short, shocking version of the story is that I went clubbing on Saturday until five in the morning and woke up in a guy's bed in the 12th.

Don't worry, Mom, there's more. Here's the long version.

Saturday morning I woke up feeling revived and decided to take on the city. I wanted, like I do so often, to discover something new, and I came up with a plan that would have me exploring a new part of Paris every weekend. After I lay around in bed for another hour and decided to scrap that unrealistic, idealistic piece of crap plan, I thought I'd go see a free photo exhibit at the Hotel de Ville with Stephanie. Saturday was a beautiful day. A bit cold, but hey, this is Paris. If the sun is out and the rain's not falling, you should be very grateful, and I was. We walked around Tuileries for a while, avoiding the Romanian girls who ask you if you speak English, then hold up cards with pleas for money scrawled out in rather exact penmanship. Angelina's was next on the menu, but it was still only two - an ungodly hour for hot chocolate, mind you, so we headed to the Orangerie for some Monet and other early 20th century art. All in all, it was kind of meh. Once you've seen all the major works in the Musée d'Orsay, other museums just pale in comparison. And yes, I know art people reading this are going, "sacrilege!" But please. I studied art history, I took impressionism here, I know what I'm talking about. If you're going to pay some hard-earned Euros to see some good ol' toiles, best fork it over at Orsay and get some good architecture as well. Finally, after the Orangerie and a twenty-minute line at Angelina, we sipped our chocolat à l'africain with much gusto and split a pistachio réligieuse, which was good, but not unforgettable. After that, we both went home to take a nap in preparation for the night ahead.

Steph ended up not coming. This was the first problem. This meant that, at a stoplight party - to be explained in a minute - I was going to be the only one of my friends not coupled up. First, we headed for dinner - one of those sushi train restaurants at the behest of my friend's boyfriend. It was pretty good, although I did rip my tights on the eight-foot high chairs. We killed time in a cafe, where my friend and I got 10Euro Irish coffees that were two parts whiskey to one drop coffee, which warmed us up in anticipation of venturing back into the Siberian wasteland that is Paris in February. Now, observation number one: three guys were waiting in line before us, and the guy at the door said there wasn't any room. We go up and get right in. Later, my friend's boyfriend tells us that this is a regular occurrence, and that usually, bouncers won't let guys in who aren't accompanied by at least one girl. He said that he loved it in the States because he could get in wherever he wanted, regardless of who he was with. Interesting. Also, the cover charge was 10E for girls, 20E for guys. And the plot thickens. So now, not only will the guys you meet in the club be sketchy, but they may be wealthy and will definitely expect to get what they paid for. More of that later. For now, let me explain this stoplight party nonsense. I'd never been to one of these things, so maybe they're a weekly thing, maybe everyone's been to one but me, but I'm still going to explain. You walk in and get a bracelet. Red if you're taken, green if you're single, and yellow if you don't know. How can you not know? Whatever. I took a yellow because I figured red would be flat out lying and green would invite unwanted sketchy drunkards. Yellow seemed safe and gave me an easy way out of hairy situations. Oh, if only the bracelet had been enough...

Almost four hours of dancing later, I still found myself toute seule in the middle of the dancefloor, surrounded by my coupled-up friends and newly coupled-up strangers. Over the course of the night, I'd gotten to experience true Parisian clubbing - people feeling me up on their way through the crowd, guys spilling their drinks all over my shoes, people knocking their elbows into my head. Oh, it was a blast. And then I met Stanislas. I never actually got his name, but that's what I'm going to call him; he just had a Stanislas air about him. Obviously drunk and definitely sketchy, he came up to me smiling and kept trying to dance with me. My friends succeeded in sending him off a couple times, but when he came back a third time and started grabbing my arms and leaning in to say things into my ears, I said "fuck this" and went over to the first guy I saw leaning against the wall. I'd also noticed this guy hanging around us for a while, looking at me like he was going to come over and ask me to dance. Even though this was the least attractive guy I've ever seen in France, I thought it was better than being badgered by Stan. So I thought it would be a win-win situation, and actually, I'd be doing him a favor (not because of the unattractive thing, because of the shy thing). But, in my fleeting moment of ballsy awesomeness, I forgot that in France, when a girl asks a guy to dance, she's really asking if he wants to sleep with her. Silly me, I forgot that the women's rights movement didn't really cross the Atlantic. Five minutes of the most awkward, horrible dancing - I mean ridiculously awkward 7th grade dancing, no contact, looking around to avoid eye contact, dancing - went by, and I couldn't do it any more. I told him I was getting back to my friends and that he should go keep his friend company. Pretty pimp if I do say so myself. Such a tease. A few minutes later and we were waiting for someone to get back from the bathroom when he came back, after a lot of coercion from his friends, and started dancing behind me. He put his hand on my hip and I turned around, just in time for him to say something to me I didn't quite get. I told him, no thanks, I'm leaving in a few minutes. "Oh, you want to leave?!" He looked so excited, like a dog when you go to get the leash off the wall. I said, "No, I'm leaving with some friends." I turned away, and then we left. I ended up at a friend's boyfriend's place and slept in his bed while they went back to my friend's place.

And so, nothing of real import happened this weekend. But the next day I realized what the guy in the club had said. "Tu veux que je t'engouffre?" I wasn't aware that you could say "do you want me to devour you?" in the middle of a crowded club to a girl you don't know. But then again, this is France, and I did ask the guy to dance with me in the first place, so I guess I deserved that one, right?

More updates on school and such at some point...

A funny thing happened on the way to the metro

I've noticed I bitch a lot on this blog. I mean, we're talking a sizable amount here. And I've realized that I really don't have a reason to bitch, so I've decided to try to stop complaining so much. I took an objective look at things and came up with a full list of things that really should void my bitching possibilities: I live in Paris; I live in a nice neighborhood in a decent apartment of which many people are jealous; I'm going to grad school at one of the most well-renowned universities in the world; I have food on my table, clothes on my back, and many pairs of shoes on my feet. I've pretty much got my bases covered, and for as much as I love bitching about all the hypocrisy and inconsistency Paris has to offer, it really is a phenomenal city, full of little bits of happiness and rainbows around every corner. Ok, well, maybe not every corner - I'm not that optimistic, and I never said anything about losing the cynicism. But anyways, life in Paris is kind of like Space Mountain, if you'll excuse the cheap simile. It's fast and full of twists and turns, some of which are fun and some which seem to break your ribs, and the best part is that you really don't know where any of it's going to take you.

I don't really have anything to expand on that, but I just wanted to write about one of those little jolts that brought so much pleasure into my life last night. We were walking to Nation (metro stop), and as we approached the corner with the condom dispenser on the wall, we noticed a van stopped in front of it. A guy in a denim jacket and grey sweatshirt jumped out of the passenger side and jogged to the dispenser, then fished some money out of his pocket and put it in the machine as we walked by. Now, there are a lot of condom dispensers in Paris. They're in almost every metro station and in bathrooms just like they are in the U.S., and I know people must use them and I'm glad they do. I've just never seen someone actually use one. Yeah, it's not a big deal. It wasn't some life-changing experience that'll win me a Pulitzer. I'm not going to go and write the Great American Novel because I saw some guy buy a rubber on a street corner. But it was just so... odd. We all had the urge to yell back at him, "have a good time!" or "good screwing!" much like you would say "bon appetit" to anyone eating a sandwich or crepe on the street. But of course, that would be rude. But based on the French principles of personal space and the fact that buying a condom on the street is an act in public, therefore for everyone to see, I really don't see a problem with it. In fact, I bet that if we'd said it, he would have laughed. I don't know, I just think it's weird. The dispensers are there for everyone to see, but I somehow imagine that anyone that uses them waits until everyone's gone until they put drop their cash in. Don't you think it's kind of bizarre to buy a condom on the street? Or to see someone doing it? Go to the market, you can get a whole lot more than one or three. But then again, buying a whole box would mean you knew it would happen more than once, and I guess if you have to stop on the street and jump out of a car and leave it running to get a condom, you don't really have the time to do it more than once or three times anyways.

On the subject of contradiction, though, I forgot to add this one little quote into that whole long rant. It's from I, Lucifer, which is a pretty good book about the Devil's last chance at redemption, which, inevitably, they're making into a movie. Anyways, this is what Lucifer has to say about France: "France is the flower of civilization, and also the home of revolution which will lop off the head of that flower." Just something to mull over while I go experience the city a bit more and hopefully have some more interesting things to talk about, because I don't know about you, but I'm getting a little tired of me trying to make a mile of bullshit out of an inch of life.