poeticdesires

Category: Wisdom

  • Grateful, Nice Edition

    I sat at the kitchen island, my latest Santa hat beginning to take shape.  As everyone began to form a circle, I put my project away, stood, and held hands with a brother on each side.  My older brother, in whose house we all stood, was on my right; he said the blessing.

    After his prayer, I took up my seat at the island again.  My younger brother sat to my left.  A baskatball game played on the television above the counter across from us.  One of my nieces sat to my right.  We three waited patiently watching the game as our elders prepared their plates first.

    Another relative sat at the end of the island feeding my great-nephew.  Until that moment, he’d been the tiny tornado causing all types of little kid trouble in the kitchen.  With food in his mouth, and soon filling in his belly, he had finally calmed down.

    My older brother and his wife buzzed about the stove and serving tables making sure everyone was happy and getting well fed.

    For the entirety of the Christmas family dinner, I had an at times awkward, but always grateful, smile on my face.

    ~

    I can’t remember where I was when I got the email.  I only remember reading it and thinking, Really?  Really!?!  And a grin so huge it hurt sprung onto my face.

    I know I screamed, though again I don’t remember where I was.  I don’t recall calling attention to myself in the act, so I was probably in my car.

    It is one thing for friends to praise my writing.  I am grateful for every blog comment and link from another site I receive.  But there is a sweet satisfaction in an acceptance email from a publisher.

    It may be just one story in one antholoy, but it is enough to keep me going, enough to keep me hopeful.

    ~

    I’m not sure when my classmates realized it, but I do remember the first time I felt it.

    It was the first day.  I sat front row in both my classes.  I’d already read the first chapter for each professor.  I’d already studied the elements my Chemistry professor recommended in her email, and I’d already taken notes for my Biology lecture.

    From the first day, though I didn’t quite believe it, I felt like the know-it-all Nerd Girl again.

  • Beautiful

    I didn’t understand it, I didn’t truly see it, until I saw her.

    She was taller than me.  Her skin was darker than mine.  She was bigger than me, probably a few dress sizes larger.  But her body shape was the same as mine.  And she wore a dress like one I own.

    As she danced, her hair out and wild, her body moving with full abandon, I saw it.  I saw the thing others have seen in me.

    I saw why people find me beautiful.

    I was tired.  Exhausted really.  I’d worked for fourteen hours the day before and only gotten three hours of sleep the night before.  I managed a short nap before this particular gig, and I was buoyed with the knowledge that it was to be short.

    Except it wasn’t short.  The times had been mixed up.  This would be a long gig as well.

    I felt deflated, almost ready to cry.  My only solace at the moment was that my favorite work friend was with me.  At least I would have her company as we waited out the party.

    Because of circumstance, I found myself near all the action.  My moving light board was sandwiched in between the bar and the DJ.  I had to be able to see my lights and hear the music as people danced.

    The crowd was slow to pour in, slow to get themselves out onto the dance floor.  I stood by my board and began ticking off the minutes til we could pack up and leave.  But then a small crowd formed, and she was among them.

    As I watched her move, watched her let her body go to the rhythm and be fully herself in the moment, I remembered times past where I felt that.  A smile plastered across my face that hurt from its intensity.  A rush of endorphins as every nerve on my skin tingled.  Glee in the moment, the hot lust in my body, the abandon of just being me.

    Logically I know I’m beautiful.  Logically I know I’m attractive.  I’ve fucked enough people who I find to be utterly gorgeous to know I stand among them, at the their level.  But I don’t always feel beautiful.  I don’t always feel sexy, hot.  I don’t always know why people want to be with me.

    But, standing there behind my light board, watching her dance, I saw in her what others had seen in me, a reflection of my true beauty as another reveled in her own.

    I ended up dancing alongside my coworker as we enjoyed the DJ’s skills and fed off the energy of the crowd.  What I thought was going to be a horrible evening turned into one of my most enjoyable gigs ever.

    And I learned a valuable lesson that night: To be one’s self, wholly and completely, without reservation or hesitation; that is beautiful.

  • Atrophy

    Since I adopted a new writing goal for this blog, I’ve found myself wondering if I made the right decision. Since I am not expected to have new content everyday, I’ve given myself an easy out, settling for less than my potentional.

    In fact, I’ve not been good about posting every other day like I planned, often throwing in bursts of entries, catching up with my long lapses. (See the three entries tonight, for example.)

    As I’ve grown as a writer, starting around age 7 until now, I’ve seen a haphazard pattern. I’ll write, jotting down a burst of ideas. I’ll get some short stories out or a novella or poetry. I’ll journal almost every day. I’ll have this huge ocean of ideas I have to bring forth. And when I do, I feel awesome. I am the shit.

    But then I drift. I let life get in the way. I allow all the things that make me busy to pop up and pull me away from pen and paper or my computer. I take a break, but it isn’t a conscious break.

    I always came back to writing, eventually. I always found myself one day compelled to scribble out pages on a thought or a story that was kicking around in my mind.

    But those breaks scare me a little. At times I worry that my brain atrophies, losing some of the magic I once had, making it that much harder to re-commit myself to my work.

    Like I said, I always come back. The urge, the need, is never far away. I can’t not write. I just have to.

    These past few months, giving myself the space for a partial break on this blog, has felt less than good. I have less pressure, no more constant deadline, but I also feel lazy, like I’m not really pushing myself.

    And then I went to Frolicon.

    I’m back now, having had some geeky kinky fun. While I was there, my time was split between two loves: writing and bootblacking (on which I’ll focus my thoughts tomorrow).

    As I saw familiar faces, heard familiar voices, and listened to familiar thoughts on the state of writing, one obvious notion slapped me hard: I could be up there. I could be one of the people on that panel. I could be doing this. Why am I not committing, really committing, to my writing?

    On one particular panel, there were two writers who within the past year had their first works published. From the time I walked away from last Frolicon to the time I returned to the gathering, they had changed their literay lives. Have I?

    Now, home and full of writerly thoughts, I see a need to push myself more, to do more, to be that much more motivated to my work, committed to the efforts it takes to make my writing that much better. And I’m left with an obvious yet poignant thought.

    I can do this.

    To that end, I’m adding another writing goal for myself for this year.

    I will submit at least one work per month for the rest of the year for publication. I already submitted a short story last month, and I know of two more calls out for submissions due by the end of April and the end of May.

    No more laziness. Time to kick it up again.

  • Three to the Third

    I may never forget his birthday.

    I love numbers, always have, and as soon as he told me his birthday, I smiled and said, “Oh, cool; three to the third.” He smiled at the nerdy way my brain had branded the date into my memory.

    Now, having not seen or spoken to him in months, it dawned on me about a week or two ago that his birthday was soon approaching.

    I’ve kept myself from contacting him. No texts. No calls. Every day I think about it, either in a passing moment or in the struggle of an addict trying not to get just one more fix. But now, the irony of a text to him on his special day just seems fitting.

    I don’t know if I’ll do it. Something in me wants to if for no other reason than it is the perfect excuse. No other day of the year lends itself to my self-destructive tendency to keep this man in my life. And considering how shitty my special day was, why the fuck not inject a thought into his brain?

    But the logical side of me, the part of me that wants to protect myself from myself, is resistant, realizing the harm it could bring, the further damage I could inflict upon myself.

    What would I get out of such a message? Opening the Pandora’s box of contacting him. Placing myself back on his hook. Splaying my wants and needs out again, knowing most likely he will not fulfill them.

    Something in my brain sees this as how it should be. The constant unknowing, hoping for what can never be, what he will never want or allow. Something in my brain nudges me to act in ways I know will not be in my self interest, ways that will do more harm than good. Because my brain believes he will change. My brain believes it can be different, he can be different.

    My brain believes things I know, more likely than not, will never be true.

    So I try to tell my brain to shut up, which Doc insists is not the way to tame my urges.

    Then I try to listen to the voice behind my thoughts, which Doc encourages. I listen to her, the little girl who just wants to be loved. The little girl who believes if she just does this or says that he will want her, he will change for her. The little girl who wants the attention, the approval, the care he never gave.

    I hold her. I caress her hair. And I tell her everything will be alright. I tell her I love her, no matter what.

    So whether or not I send that text on the 27th, whether or not I open up Pandora’s box again, I try to continue to love myself despite myself, whatever consequences my swirly brain’s decisions elicit.

  • A Little Motivation

    So I was in my car, driving from a gig to my house, listening to NPR the other day. I was only a minute or two away from home when a local news segment came on. The feature: decision day for medical school students. This was the day when they all learned at what hospital they’d be working.

    One of the students featured was a woman who had changed careers mid-life. At the age of thirty-five, she transitioned from a career in theatre to attempting a career in medicine. In the years since she started medical school, she’d gotten married and had children; she had an entirely new life.

    As I listened to this small news story on my way home from the job I am trying to transition out of, I started crying. Right there, in my car, over a small news story, tears trickled down my face. I was grateful I was most of the way home. I pulled into my driveway and pulled myself back together.

    There it was. There I was. There was where I could be. A person with a similar background as me had already done what I am just starting, the long road to a career in medicine.

    I’ve been pretty up front with how scary and nervous making this whole process is for me. There are a number of hurdles I need to jump through before I can even apply for medical school. At least two years of community college. Studying for and taking the MCATs. Figuring out how I’m going to pay for all the learning I will need. All the while I know I will have to stay in my job, make sacrifices with my time, with my friends, with my family, and, sadly, with the many kinky adventures you read about here.

    But this one little news story of how someone else, someone I don’t know yet who is somewhat similar to me, that one news story is what I needed to hear.

    I’m sure, in the years to come, during the struggle, during the not-so-fun times, I will remember those five minutes on my radio. I will remember that someone like me, someone who didn’t come to medicine early, made it there anyway.

    Sometimes you just need a little motivation, a little reminder, a glimmer of hope along the way.

  • Fuck You Knowledge

    I get sad.

    It’s not for any real medical reason, but every time the seasons change I go into a funk. My general mood drops to bleh, and I find myself not wanting to do anything but plant my ass on the couch, alternating between watching NetFlix and sleep.

    I know the things I should be doing to combat this (exercise, writing, actually getting normal sleep each night), but the life I have set up for myself combats my needs. I work, at times, insane hours making it difficult for me to create a regular sleep pattern. Being tired makes it hard (very hard) to write, and with so little time I prioritize sleep over a run. Plus I once tried to run when I was super tired. I just ended up walking for more than half of it, and not even at a fast pace. Basically my body yelled at me, saying WhatTheFuck, GoToBed! I’ve listened ever since.

    When it goes from Summer to Fall or, in my current circumstance, from Winter to Spring, I am reminded of the passage of time. I am reminded that half a year has gone by. Another six months of my life lived. And, no matter how amazing the days were, another six months I will never have again.

    I am afraid of death. I am afraid to die. [Yes, this is another heavy blog. Deal.]

    So, spoiler alert:

    There is this part at the end of The Green Mile where the main character is narrating over the images on screen, and he’s talking about how he knows he will someday die, but it will be a long time for him to wait, because if the Michael Clark Duncan character can make a mouse live however many years, how long does that mean he, a grown man, will last.

    I get what the guy is saying; I understand the scariness of seeing your friends and family die around you. I understand his existence will be depressing… for him.

    But I can see the flip side of that, too. I can see the years of watching the changes in the world. I can see the possibilities for innovation, evolution, change. I can only imagine all the things I will miss out when I am gone, because some day I will not be here.

    I don’t believe in heaven or hell. I believe, when you die, that’s it. Like going to sleep, but never waking up. You rest.

    Maybe, possibly, my brain will fire a neuron that will flow through my glia, but my consciousness will experience it as an ever lasting memory. Hopefully, if this is what they mean by heaven or hell, it is joyful or comforting. Even for the worst of us, I hope that.

    If not, give me rest.

    I understand the appeal of vampires, staying young and living forever. At a sacrifice, yes, but is the alternative a blessing or the ultimate curse? No one knows, until you know.

    I read a quote recently, and I know I am about to butcher it, but it said roughly this: Humans are the only animal that tells time, and yet a dog does not need a watch to know when it is time to eat or go outside. Humans are blessed with knowledge, yet it is their curse, for since they are the only animal who knows time, they are also the only ones who are keenly aware that it is running out.

    In 4.5 billion years, the Earth will be gobbled up by the Sun when it becomes a red giant star. 4.5 billion years left on this planet. Granted, we will probably kill ourselves out by then, but… 4.5 billion years.

    And I get 80+, if I’m lucky.

    Fuck you knowledge.

  • Why?

    I’ve been asking myself that question a lot lately, mostly because of a friend’s influence, although Doc has been encouraging it as well.

    In regards to my theatrical career, there is one person who I believe owes most of the credit for my current circumstance: Mr. David Kriebs. He was the Production Manager for the Performing Arts Center at my college, and, on the first day of my first college Theatre Tech class, he uttered a sentence I will never forget: “We eat.”

    It was his pithy explanation of being a techie. We get jobs. We don’t wait for callbacks. We don’t hem and haw over whether or not the casting director liked us. We work.

    And, for the first time, I thought about theatre as a viable career. Nevermind that I loved to act, would later learn I had a knack for directing, and had been writing since age seven. With Kriebs’ one line, a seed had been planted. I could work as a techie for a living.

    It doesn’t really matter that I didn’t drop my Math major for another year. I was already heading down the path, already set in the life I would live.

      “The question to ask, before you chuck it all to go raise horses in the desert or climb trees for a living, is: why? Take a look at where you are, because on some level there was something about being there that you wanted. Some quality about it reflects some desire within yourself, and that’s why you made things the way they are…

    It’s important to know what parts of our lives are subsidized by the habits and environments we cultivate. Because change is gonna happen regardless; it’s probably a good idea to only help it along when you’re sure it’s worth the risk.” – Gray, from The Danger of Desire, Love.Life.Practice.

    The problem, though, is that I sat up a false narrative in my mind with David’s sage words. Techie equals job, pay, making a living. Acting equals maybe job, maybe pay, hard living.

    I never gave myself the chance to be an actor, never gave myself the chance to explore that desire I had to be on stage, in the limelight, baring my soul for the world. Funny enough, my fears about relationships mirror my fears about being an actor: letting people in, letting people see me, raw, unfiltered, and their judgement that was sure to come.

    Now, being a freelance tech, there are many reasons why I have kept this job. A big allure is the freedom. I’m never stuck at a desk, never bound by a steady nine to five life. FOMO, fear of missing out, haunts me at times. This job makes it less a likelihood. I won’t lose my job no matter how much time I take off.

    But now, thinking about a life I am pursuing where I know I will be sacrificing so much freedom, so many events I would normally attend, doesn’t scare me. What scares me now is the thought of what I could’ve been if I had tried a little harder, made different decisions.

    When it comes to medicine, there was something more insidious in my aversion of that path. It was my family, their influence, that pushed me astray. Two prominent female figures in my life, my mother and my cousin Ella, led me away from that dream.

    I was in my early teens when once Ella asked me, point blank, “How would you feel if someone died on your table?” I didn’t have an answer to her question. In my mind, that meant I was not capable of being a doctor, because surely others had thought of this and knew how they would react, knew that they could handle it. I didn’t know how I would react, if I could take it, if it would break me. I still don’t.

    But then there was the subtle nudge of my mother. Her example of being less than. Once, when I was young, mentioning wanting to be a doctor, thinking about following in my father’s footsteps, and her asking me to not say that. Somehow insinuating it wasn’t “right”, whatever that is. I don’t know if my mother was ashamed of her life, of her role that she played as the loving mistress, but I suspect whatever reservations she had she unknowingly tried to pass onto me.

    And now I’m here, in a job that pays my bills but I do not love, knowing I could be more.

    Now I am starting a journey of trying to be something else, something closer to what I imagined when I was younger, something closer to what I hope will be better for those around me and the world as a whole. Because soon I’ll be 30. And then 40. And then 50. And in the precious time I have on this earth, I want to be doing something I love rather than something I’m good at or something that is just safe.

  • The Un-Boyfriend

    I stopped looking. I stopped trying. 

    I have barely touched my OKCupid profile, answered messages, or tried to hookup with anyone since meeting OKC boy.

    It came to me last night, as I snuggled up in bed, reading a blog before my eyelids shut for the evening: OKC boy is the perfect un-boyfriend.

    We have had three “dates”. The first was our initial meeting at a nearby Starbucks. I realized a few things from that two hours of chatting. 1- He’s hot. 2- He’s geektastic. 3- He has an avoidant attachment style, just like me.

    Our second “date” involved him visiting my house. He was late (minus five points), but then set out to explain his tardiness as we sat and drank in my living room. His excuse seemed plausible enough.

    And then we fucked for three hours. That part was rather pleasant. Oh, who am I kidding. It was awesome. Turns out (shocker) my sexual appetite is greater than his. I wanted to keep fucking after round number four, but he was spent and had other plans for his evening.

    Our third “date” actually involved leaving my house. We ate pancakes at a local diner and chatted… before coming back to my home to fuck for a few hours. Once again, the sex was great. And then he left.

    I have created the perfect and worst possible situation for myself. I am, on occasion, screwing an incredibly intelligent, attractive, goal oriented guy… who is not interested in a relationship right now.

    “Let’s see where things go” in answer to my “I’d like us to be more than friends” was a gentle way of him letting me know all I could expect was sex and laughs. I’m grateful for his half-assed answer.

    But now I find myself in the very situation I don’t want to be in, and yet am drawn towards.

    I’ve learned from my time with Doc that what is happening, what I’m doing, is hitting all of my anxious avoidant buttons. I was so very nervous when I slipped in my hope as we chatted, naked on a futon bed in the basement. When I heard his answer, I got the hint. Later, when he casually mentioned how focused he was on his career and that he used OKC just for hooking up, I really got the hint.

    Since then I’ve barely thought about him other than when are we going to fuck again.  But I also haven’t worked towards finding anyone else.  I’ve switched from being anxious about what could be with him to being avoidant to the issue at hand: this is not a real relationship.

    I’ve put myself in a place I don’t want, again. My emotional energy is going towards someone who is not going to give it back. In a not-at-all-surprising way, I have recreated the situation I saw as love in my house, a mostly absent male figure occasionally dropping in for moments and then leaving.

    Why does this keep happening?

    Well…

    1- I’m drawn to distant male figures, either emotionally distant, physically distant, or both.

    2- My parents’ example taught me that that was what loves was, longing for the person who isn’t there, taking in the bits of them that they allow you to have, and believing that is okay. (Hint: IT IS NOT OKAY!)

    3- Even though it is what I rage against, sometimes I think it’s what I want. Not really want, but what I know. What I’m used to. It’s hard for me to change unless a situation gets to be unbearable. And here I find myself with a hot intelligent not-an-asshole boy ready to fuck me about once every few weeks.

    But this is not what I want from a relationship. However, it is what I know, where I’m comfortable, how I’ve lived much of my adult sexual life. Everything in me wants to change this, wants more than just fucking (though I still want the fucking).

    I want the chest feelings with the pants feelings. I want a warm body in my bed at night to snuggle me to sleep, and a pillow to nudge my head against when I wake up in the morning. I want a partner to open up to about how scared I am for my mother, how nervous I am about going back to school, how much stuff I want to do with my writing and presenting. I want someone on my side rather than just in between my legs.

    I don’t want to be alone anymore. I don’t want an un-boyfriend. I want a boyfriend.

    But how will I ever get what I want when it’s so easy (even when it’s hard) to just stay here.

    (Cue tears…)

    …

    …

    /end crying

  • The Plan

    I took my own advice the other day. I had time to kill during a gig, so I sat and thought about what I wanted from my life. What I wanted from my career. What I wanted in love.

    I wrote down two goals for five years from now. I thought about them, let them linger inside me for a while.

    And then my Mom got sick. And I visited her every day I could while she was in the hospital.

    As I walked through the same doors multiple times, and saw the same people each day, it became clear what I wanted. I don’t want to be an EMT. I want to be a doctor.

    In a strange twist of fate, during a conversation with one of my mother’s other visitors, the woman talked about the son of a friend. He was just turning thirty. He had just finished medical school and was about to start his work in a hospital. As I sat there, listening to this woman chat with my mother, I thought, That could’ve been me. I could’ve been a doctor by now.

    As I walked through the halls of that hospital, every time I saw someone in a white lab coat, especially in groups, I kept thinking, They could’ve been my colleagues.

    So I made the decision. I’m going for it. I’m going to become a doctor.

    I suppose the decision may be both the easiest and hardest part of this process. Now that I’ve made the decision, named it, said it, breathed life to it, I have to take the first steps, start the journey, the long hard slog to my goal.

    Just in doing some basic searching on the interwebs, I know it will be at minimum two years before I can even apply to med school. I have 32 credits of sciences I need to take, not to mention I need double check my English credits still count. I’ll need to study for and take the MCATs too. There is just so much to do. It’s all very overwhelming.

    My life is going to fundamentally change come Fall of this year. I plan to enroll in the local community college for my credits, two lab sciences a semester for the next two years. I would’ve gone back to my old university, but the cost would’ve been more than double the price of the community college. Not even a question of what decision I was going to make.

    I am scared shitless. Scared I’ll not be good enough. Scared that it is too late for me to try. Scared that it will all be for naught. But I have to try. I have to know if I had the goods, if I was meant to be a doctor.

    There was one good thing that came out of my conversation with my father yesterday. He casually mentioned that before my sister died she was pursuing a career in medicine. Part of the reason why I didn’t go down that road was because of pressure from my mother, whether she realized it or not, to not walk in my father’s footsteps, to not pursue medicine because of some odd notion of my place and her place in his life.

    I reject my mother’s example of humility to others for the sake of I don’t know what.

    I am smart. Super smart. I am brave, courageous, much more daring than she has ever been. And I am better than a doormat.

    I’m going for this, come hell or high water. I’m going to become a doctor, or crash and burn while trying.

  • The Upside to Amputation

    “I know this is hard, and you can totally tell me to fuck off, but can you see an upside to this revelation?” – Doc

    “Well, yes. I invested a lot of emotional energy their way, so now that I’ve accepted that the fantasy in my head won’t happen, I can invest most of that emotional energy elsewhere. And maybe that’ll lead to other things, other connections. But, I mean, really… you can find an upside to amputation.” – me

    I’m not in the best mood right now.

    I had a good therapy session today in that what Doc and I talked about was important and big and a good guide post of where I need to go next. But it also sucked because I accepted a fact that, for quite a while, I didn’t want to and have been doing my best to avoid.

    A fantasy of a life I wanted to have got shot down in the kindest way possible.

    Accepting reality, accepting that a dream I had will not be, is not an easy thing to do or an easy place to live. Yet that is one of the points of me going to Doc in the first place: growing emotionally as a person, being strong enough to face my life instead of creating some story that I live in instead of the cold hard real.

    Doc thought my snarky comment was actually poignant.  He likened how I was feeling to amputation, cutting out a part of myself in order to heal.

    So now, with VD (my not-so-affectionate nickname for Valentine’s Day) approaching, I’m having all these other craptastic emotions along with the new stew I brewed today.

    Thinking back on my VD history, I have no positive memories that aren’t marred in some way.

    There was my Ex, who didn’t believe in giving gifts and never would acknowledge me as his girlfriend or that we were in a relationship. One VD I wrote him little notes and planted them in his cigarettes and his pocket. He liked them, and said thank you, but that was it. We went along as we were after that; nothing really changed til I left, but that’s how it was always going to be with him.

    There was the one time in First Grade (when everything seems to start) when I wrote a VD card for a boy I liked named Noel. The girl sitting beside me saw the card, and then yelled my intention to the entire class like it was some huge horrible thing. I was trying to be sweet and she ruined it. No wonder I have trouble expressing my emotions, little cunt.

    And now, with more of my VD’s spent unpartnered rather than coupled, I have new knowledge crapping all over my mind.

    I suspect things with OKC boy may not work out. From our interactions over the phone, it seems like we want different things. We’re getting together on Friday, and I’ve already resigned myself to the fact that we may have a less than pleasant conversation (though this will probably happen after sex during hang out time).

    Doc pointed out that this was good; in dealing with OKC boy I am solidifying what I want and need from a relationship. As in most things in life, it is a learning experience.

    Also, as in most things in life, it is annoying and frustrating and kind of headache-making.

    The one solace to my VD this year lies in a simple fact: during that day I will be distracted from morning til night.

    VD falls on the Thursday before Winter Fire, and I am again on staff. This year, though, I am on the non-dungeon setup crew. No more music craziness. No crying fits in the bathroom. No stress induced anger. I will setup, have my event, break down, and go home.

    I will make new memories, have new experiences to draw on, to remember, to cherish. I’ve already got eight playdates in the works (nine if you count my hope for a self suspension). There is an opportunity for me to read some of my erotica, catch up with far away friends, and spend time with ones close to home but who I do no see enough.

    I love that, on this VD, I can really just say fuck it to all the shit that normally pisses me off. I will be a happy little kinkster helping other kinky folk have amazing sexy times. I can view no better way to spend my VD than doing that.