Lorna George's Blog, page 2

[Man Hater]

“Why do you hate men?”

The stranger on the internet asks.

He’s called me a bitch twice

And I should block him

But what would that achieve?

“I don’t hate men,”

I correct him calmly.

“I hate the way men have treated me.”

I hate the way men have belittled me.

I hate the way men have disrespected me.

I hate the way men have hurt me.

I hate that men have lied to me

Used my softness like a weapon

And smashed me into dust with it.

I hate that men have used me

Like a cheap hotel room.

I let them in

They make a mess

Break things

Then leave.

I hate that men have abused me

And covered me in fingerprints

On my wrists

Around my throat

On my thighs

And in my mind.

I hate “Full disclosure:

I have a girlfriend.”

Two weeks in.

I hate “I’ve known some incredible women

Who I’d drop everything for

But you’re not one of them.”

I hate “No offence

It’s just that you’re such a cold bitch.”

I hate “You’re not what I expected.”

I hate “You’re the catch that gets thrown back.”

But most of all I hate “You’re a defective woman.

You’re broken.

And who wants that?”

I hate that all these moments

Still have the power to cause me pain

And have hurt me in ways

I may never recover from.

But no.

I don’t hate men.

If I did, life would be much easier.

But perhaps that’s not the right question.

Perhaps the real question should be:

“Why do men hate me?”

The Joys of Dating

Dating is scary at the best of times, particularly if you’re someone –like myself- with very little experience in the subject. In fact, I have very little experience in any kind of “romantic” sense. I’ve only been sexual with two men in my life, and always somehow manage to disgrace myself whenever I attempt to flirt. I’m not a sexy or sensual woman. I’m not a particularly attractive woman, either, and between that, my questionable sense of humour, and my unfortunate inability to string together a coherent sentence (verbally, at least) it’s no wonder my own reaction to somehow embarrassing myself in public has become the dry and self-deprecating: “How the fuck am I still single?”

Meeting someone via the internet seemed like a gift to silly, awkward me. At first, anyway. I met this one guy via my most commonly used social media platform, and at first, there was no expectation except a little light conversation and a few jokes. After a couple of weeks of back and forth, I was incredibly shocked when he asked me on a date. Perhaps it was the fact that I’m not great at social cues, or perhaps I just have no expectation or understanding of anyone wanting to date me, but “shocked” really is an apt word.

I liked him, honestly. He made me laugh, and he seemed friendly enough, plus we had things in common and good conversation. After a little bit of incredulity and heavily resisting the urge to respond with “Are you taking the mickey, or what?” I decided to go for it.

We arranged a time and place to meet, and I did that inevitable thing where I went through every single item of clothing I own trying to come up with an outfit that made me look nice, but not like I was trying too hard, which I almost definitely put way more thought into than the skirt and cardigan number deserved –especially considering I’m wearing the exact same clothes right now, and all I’ve done all day is housework.

That done, I did my makeup the same way I always do, and even resisted the urge to do anything particular with my hair. I wanted to be myself. At least, as much myself as I ever am when I’m meeting someone for the first time.

I was a little late as I headed to the designated coffee shop, so when I got there I had a quick glance around, and not seeing him, sent a message to let him know I was there. Surprisingly, he answered fairly quickly that he was also in the coffee shop, so I looked about again and spotted him tucked away in a little corner I’d missed in my earlier haste. I recognised him from his profile picture, smiled and waved, and picked up my coffee to go join him.

He didn’t seem particularly pleased to see me. He didn’t smile as I sat down opposite him, and immediately nervous, I kind of blustered away for a moment about why I’d been late before I even realised that he looked mildly irritated.

“You’re not what I expected.” He said, rather bluntly.

“Oh?” I blinked. I had no idea how to respond to that.

“Your profile picture…” he began, then cleared his throat and looked away. “It’s a good photo.”

“I… guess…?”

Part of me wanted to laugh. Yes, of course it was a good photo. I wasn’t going to use a crap one, was I? In fact, I can tell you it’s the profile picture I use on here, too. No filter, just good, natural lighting, and a morning where I felt nice about myself, so could smile for a selfie without looking painfully constipated.

“Yeah…” He said slowly. Then sighed, and stood up from his seat. “Sorry.”

Without a single word further or a backwards glance, he left, and I sat in stunned silence as the two women on the next table over tittered into their cups. I won’t lie, it took me a long moment to realise what had happened, and when it hit me I wanted to take out my phone and show these complete strangers the photo, just so they could see I wasn’t some bizarre cat-fisher.

I felt fairly humiliated, but I forced myself to sit there and drink my coffee, and read until there were different people sitting on the tables nearby. I couldn’t tell you why, but it seemed important at the time.

All the while I was running through the situation over and over in my mind. Was it really the photo that had been the problem? Because it seemed ludicrous to me to think so; that is my face. That’s what I look like. Perhaps it was something else? Perhaps it had been because I was late and hadn’t messaged him to say so? Perhaps I’d used a perfume that reminded him of his year nine maths teacher? Perhaps my eyeliner had smudged? Worse still! Perhaps it was the cardigan?

To this day I couldn’t tell you. He blocked me, and I was torn between being indignant at the insanity of his reaction, and guilt for somehow pushing him to make such a drastic move. But I didn’t know what I’d done, and confused as I am, it does seem rather silly to beat myself up for something like… well. I don’t even know. Using a profile picture I look nice in?

My housemate has been trying to get me to sign up to proper dating sites, and I came very close the other day. Then it wanted a profile picture and I spent almost two hours scrolling through my photos, growing increasingly hysterical until I was having an existential crisis over every single one and thinking: “Is ThIs My FaCe?!?!”

All About Dem Metaphors

Did you know that grapes are toxic to dogs? Just one of those little things could kill your canine friend, or at best make them very, very sick.

My mum has a terrier. His name is Kero and he’s about fifteen years old now. He runs into walls, barks when someone walks past the front window, wakes himself up when he farts in his sleep, and loves to play fetch probably more than most people have ever loved anything in their lives. He likes to have his chin scratched, he has a tail that could wag for Great Britain, and if he sees you eating grapes he’ll beg and whine and want one with his whole being.

Now, don’t get me wrong, Kero will beg for literally any food. He’s a porky little chap who would probably eat until he passed out if he could, which I can honestly relate to as much as running into walls and waking myself up when I fart in my sleep.

Thing is, he doesn’t understand that the grape is bad for him. He’ll watch me with those big brown eyes, licking his chops, tail wagging away as he sits and shuffles his butt around in uncontainable excitement. I’ll tell him no, but he’ll just try and give me a paw (as that generally works), so I’ll tell him more firmly, and he’ll just lay down and continue to watch and wag his little tail at me.

“Kero,” I’ll say, very patiently. “You can’t have this. I’m sorry, dude, but it’s bad for you.”

Alas, Kero is a dog, and has no fucking idea what I’m saying to him. All he knows is that he wants the food, and that Lorna is a soft touch, and if he’s very good and waits patiently, she’ll probably let him have one.

Of course, we all know I won’t, because he can’t have the grape. The grape will make him sick. Possibly even kill him. And he’s my buddy, so I’d never want to do anything that could hurt him, no matter how adorable he is, or how patiently he waits, or how many times he tries to give me a paw.

By comparison to my small, hairy friend, I am not a dog (well… depending on who you speak to, I suppose) but sometimes in my life, I can’t help but think of Kero and the grapes. Sometimes I’ll want something for myself, and I’ll want it so badly that it’s all I can focus on. I’ll convince myself that I’ll get it, that it’ll work out, that it’s meant to be, and I’ll do everything in my power to try and obtain it.

“Lorna,” The Universe will say, very patiently. “You can’t have this. I’m sorry, dude, but it’s bad for you.”

Alas, I don’t know that, and I have no understanding of it. All I know is that I want the Thing. I don’t know why it’s being withheld from me, only that I’m certain it’s coming my way soon, if I work hard or wait patiently enough. Until, like the grapes all being eaten, there’s nothing left for me to have.

Rather than getting disheartened now, though, I try and think of the Thing like a grape. It’s not meant for me. It’s not going to be good for me, and that’s why the universe won’t let me have it.

Sometimes, if Kero has been very good, when I’ve finished my grapes I’ll go and get him a biscuit. He’s allowed these, and it makes him sublimely happy.

I’m just here waiting for my biscuit.

You’d Have Loved “Drinking of You”

Grief is a funny thing, isn’t it? I don’t mean funny like “ha ha” but more like funny “I really couldn’t say how this is going manifest itself”.

When I was told my Grandma had been given only two weeks left to live, I completely crumbled. I wailed like a child and I didn’t care who saw or who heard. I was at work at the time, in the staff room, with one very uncomfortable onlooker trying to pat my shoulder reassuringly and another two out on the shop floor, lingering around the doorway. It was visceral and undignified, and I did it all over again at her funeral for everyone to see and hear, because I simply couldn’t contain it. I didn’t even want to try, because the pain was so terrible. I was thirty-one years old.

This week I heard that a very good friend of mine died. A close friend. He was the same age as me, and he took an overdose. The last message I sent him was “Stop being such a fanny-apple and answer me!”

This time my grief has been quiet. Heavy. Still as painful as when I lost my Grandma, but without any outlet. There hasn’t been a tidal wave of tears, no body-shaking sobbing fits; just early nights, difficult mornings, no makeup, and lots of dry shampoo. I’ve been weak and clumsy and stuttering all my words, but trying to keep all of my focus on each task in front of me at that very moment. I caught sight of myself in a mirror today and realised how utterly haggard and ill I look. It struck me then how very different my reactions were, and for a moment I started to wonder why that might be.

There are always people who try to rationalise these things, I suppose. Like if we can make some sense of it, maybe it will help us recover? But I realised today that much like the guilt I feel for my friend dying hopeless and alone, I can’t do any more than simply feel what I feel.

I’ll have to come to terms with it. I’ll have to come to terms with the idea that he won’t be coming with me to Pride this year, that I won’t ever be able to listen to Kate Nash without remembering him, that we’ll never have drunken poetry competitions again, that he’ll never finish teaching me all the moves to Poker Face, and that all of our inside jokes –which used to make me laugh until my ribs hurt- are forever as gone as he is.

I have to feel it and accept it, and as I’m sitting here right now, my heart tight and painful as I will the tears to come, I remember how he used to roll his eyes at me and tut.

“Alright, Emo-Queen, that’s enough of that shit!”

[I Wish, I Wish]

When I was little

I’d see a star

And wish for something

Extravagant.

Now I look up

With tears on my face

And a heart like lead

and whisper:

“I wish I was happy.”

Taken from “The Longest Drop” By L. Davidson

Negging

Negging is best described as a very specific type of pick-up, where the initiator will prey on the victim’s sense of self-worth –or lack thereof- in order to lower the victim’s expectations accordingly and settle for whatever they’re made to believe they can get.

This is a fairly vicious explanation, but in my opinion, it’s a fairly vicious tactic. It’s become incredibly prevalent since Neil Strauss published his rag “The Game” back in 2005.

I feel particularly vehement about it, because it seems to be the ploy most frequently used by men when attempting to get me into bed. I’d like to say I have no idea why (and on some level that’s true, but only because I have no idea why anyone would be so deliberately horrible in the first place) but the facts are these: I’m attractive enough that a guy in a pinch would sleep with me, but unattractive enough that they’re certain I’ll have low self-esteem.

They aren’t wrong, per se, but thankfully for me, as low as my self-worth can sometimes plummet, my sense of pride is fucking indomitable. I’m perfectly happy to have casual sex, but not with someone who wants me to believe they’re doing me a favour.

My most recent experience of negging was this weekend just past, when I was having a quiet drink by myself in my local pub. I was ensconced in a comfy chair, tucked away in a quiet corner, glass of wine in one hand, book in the other. I should imagine that to the casual onlooker I appeared quite content, and very clearly occupied.

One man, however, seemed to think otherwise, and despite the many empty tables and chairs in the bar, plonked himself and his pint down at my table without a single word. I jumped a little (a remnant of relationships past, I’m afraid) and glanced up at him in surprise. I don’t think he saw me look up, and as there was no eye-contact made before I quickly hid behind my book again, I decided it was safest to ignore his presence entirely. I hoped he would do likewise, but it wasn’t to be.

“I don’t understand why women put all that black around their eyes like that,” he said loudly. “You’d be so pretty without it!”

Clever, isn’t it? Nasty, but you have to give it to them; it’s clever. The subtle emotional manipulation behind those few words, undermining my confidence with a backhanded compliment so that I’ll try to seek his approval. It almost worked, I won’t lie. It tugged at some part of me that was ready to explain away my makeup choices, to placate him with excuses in order to win some favour. But in half a breath, the urge was gone.

I nodded once, slowly, then looked back at my book again. I was very conscious of the fact that most responses would be seen as encouragement, and the fact that I’d read the same paragraph at least four times without taking any of it in.

“Why do you do it?” he pressed, apparently unperturbed.

“I like it,” I said. I didn’t look up. I kept my voice flat. I wanted him to leave, but I was too afraid to say so.

He scoffed, but said nothing further, and I read the same paragraph for a fifth time with a level of concentration I generally only reserve for feats of mathematics.

There was a heavy silence that followed. I hoped he understood my disinterest and that he would leave soon, but once again, I was disappointed.

“I don’t like pink wine.”

I looked at the glass in my hand rather than at him, but felt myself tense up as he pulled his seat closer to mine.

“It tastes like paint-stripper,” he continued. “It’s a frilly drink.”

Some small corner of my mind wanted to ask him how paint-stripper was a frilly drink, but then he moved his leg so it was touching mine. I jumped back from him immediately and felt my face go red as I looked up at him. A combination of panic, anger, and years of bickering with my little sister supplied my brain immediately with, “Your face is paint-stripper!” but thankfully I ignored the urge and instead went with: “Well it’s a good thing you’re not drinking it, then!”

“Don’t be that way,” he wheedled, smiling at me despite my clear discomfort. “I’m just being friendly.”

For a split second, I felt guilty for my reaction. Was he just being friendly? Was I overreacting? But no. No. I didn’t seek or encourage his attention –his so-called friendliness- and I certainly hadn’t given him any reason to persist. A friendly person, whatever their gender, would have asked if I’d minded them sitting there in the first place (to which I’d have likely replied “Go ahead” and smiled at them) rather than helping themselves to my time and my space. They certainly wouldn’t have opened the conversation by criticizing the way I looked.

No. This was another ploy, often used socially to coerce someone into submission. It’s designed to shift the blame, to make you question your emotional response, and to make you seem like the rude or over-sensitive party. Naturally submissive I may be, but necessity has taught me how to keep myself safe despite that.

“I’m reading,” I told him, making certain to hold his gaze as I did so. I wanted to make sure he understood, and I saw the exact moment he realised I wasn’t going to budge.

“Fine,” he sneered, sitting back in his chair at last. “But I was just trying to help. When you don’t care what people think of you like that, it throws up a red flag to guys like me.”

I wanted to tell him I didn’t want his help, and I certainly hadn’t asked for it. I wanted to tell him to take his sanctimonious nonsense and stick it up his arse. I wanted to get the hell out of there as fast as I could so that I’d stop feeling nauseated and my heart would slow down again.

I didn’t do any of the above, and instead, I returned to my book without a word.

He stood abruptly, snatched up his pint, and left with the parting shot “Bitch” tossed over his shoulder, loud enough that people on other tables quietened, and the man behind the bar look across in clear concern.

I tried to reassure him with a smile, but I imagine at this point my discomposure was beyond hiding. I was incredibly anxious, my pulse roaring, my chest tight, and sweat prickling my forehead and up the back of my neck. I was shaking fairly violently, too. I wanted to leave, but the man had sat right up by the exit, and I didn’t want him to follow me out.

The barman came over and asked me if I was okay. I motioned to the man who had cornered me and said I wanted to leave. The barman nodded his understanding, pointed to a fire exit out of sight, and told me I could go that way. I thanked him quietly, not wanting to draw attention, and I left safely.

When I went back into the same pub a few days later with a friend, the barman recognised me and asked what had happened. I told him, and he said he unfortunately saw things like that all the time. He was very kind, and told me in future he’d keep an eye out, but also cautioned me that perhaps I shouldn’t come in by myself.

But why? How is that fair? Why should I not be able to come out to have a drink and read a book by myself without fearing harassment? And it is harassment. He invaded my space, my time, and my peace of mind. He deliberately tried to break me down and intimidate me to get his way.

Worse still, the next morning I woke up to find my social media full of finger-pointing and cries of “women should be more obvious” when they’re uninterested. But look what happens. Look what happens when we (and I’m sure it happens to men and gender-fluid people, too) refuse someone’s advances. We’re cornered, we’re bullied, and then told we ought not to leave our homes alone for fear of what could happen.

I don’t know, it just seems so wrong to me. I didn’t do anything to encourage this stranger, but I still came out of it badly somehow. I don’t know what the answer is, except perhaps to toughen up. But should I really have to do that just to go sit in a quiet pub by myself? Should any of us?

The Issue of Consent

I am, what my therapist frequently refers to as, a people-pleaser. It’s a pretty self-explanatory term, but the long and short of it is that I struggle to set boundaries for myself. Sometimes people make the mistake of thinking that this trait in me means that I don’t know how to say no, but that’s not the case; I do know how to say no, but past experiences and trauma have taught me that my refusal will almost always be met with hostility, disdain, and even violence.

Today on Twitter I watched as people argued back and forth about issues of consent. I’ve made it sound trivial. Let me be clear right now and say that this isn’t a trivial matter, not to me nor to many others.

Not for the first time I saw blame laid at the door of victims in the guise of “Just Say No” and the idea that people should be more vocal about their lack of consent. Well, I thought I’d take the time for those people who apparently don’t seem to understand basic social nuances to clarify what consent is, and most importantly, what consent is not.

First of all, no means no. No means no. My three-year-old nephew understands this, so fully grown adults have absolutely no excuse. If someone is brave enough to give you a flat refusal, you ought to respect that. And believe me, it is bravery, because people-pleaser or not, we’re all frightened, and that alone should horrify, not offend you.

“Mixed signals” is something I saw thrown about a lot this morning. I can tell you with absolute certainty, a mixed signal is not consent. At best it’s a maybe, which should be met with patience and respect, not coercion. A maybe is not a yes. It’s a maybe. It’s far closer to a no than a yes.

One act of sexual intimacy is not consent for another. A kiss is not consent for a blowjob. A blowjob is not consent for intercourse. We’re people too, you know. Sometimes things move too quickly and we need time to evaluate the situation before we are comfortable moving further. Sometimes we just want to stop.

A smile is not consent. I smile at people without thinking, because I’m being polite. It’s not an invitation for sex. Shockingly.

Do you want to know what consent is? It’s a yes. A flat yes. Without a shadow of a doubt yes. And if you’re not sure? Ask. Ask! Do it for yourself as much as for your partner, but please, just ask the question. Can I kiss you? Is this okay? May I…?

And for those people throwing their toys out of the pram and saying it takes away from the passion of the moment, just you sit your ass down and listen: If you honestly believe that talking to your sexual partner, whispering into their mouth, moaning against their skin what you want to do to them, and making them beg for you, making them say how badly they want you, is passionless? Lordy. You are missing out.

Consent is sexy. Communication is sexy. Both of you having fun is fucking sexy.

But you know this. You all know this, really. I’m not saying anything revolutionary over here. We were all socialised the same way as my three-year-old nephew, who understands when he isn’t allowed something, and that no amount of screaming and crying and being cross will help him get it.

It just seems like some people think the rules don’t apply to them anymore, and that is the real issue here.

To The Ladies:

If being a single woman for the past seventeen months has taught me anything, it’s that dating is hard. And difficult. And honestly? Pretty scary, sometimes. I was in no way prepared for some of the things that I’ve experienced, because in some, small, innocent part of my mind, I always assumed that everyone could exhibit basic decency and manners. Turns out that really isn’t the case at all.

“In These Shoes” started one very wine-soaked night, after I had returned from a disastrous first date to the sympathy and wisdom of my housemate, who poured alcohol down my throat and listened as I regaled her with a tragic, blow-by-blow account of the evening. By the end of my tale, we were both laughing at the absurdity of it, and she followed up with a story of her own.

We swapped back and forth, sharing our own experiences and those of other women we knew, and by the end of it, we were both in bits at our kitchen table, gasping for breath at the obscene things people think are acceptable on the dating scene.

The next day –roaring hangover notwithstanding- it occurred to me how many women have to deal with this sort of thing, and that perhaps not all of them have someone to laugh at the situation with, afterwards. But there are so many of us. So many untold stories, and so much solidarity to be had.

For my part, before I moved into my current abode, I always assumed that I was the problem. I felt like I was somehow giving the wrong signals, or that I in some way encouraged the perpetual bad treatment I received. Now I know otherwise, and that if some of the most wonderful, beautiful, clever women I know have been treated much worse, perhaps we aren’t the problem.

I’ve collected a fair few stories from the women in my local acquaintance, mixed in with quite a few of my own tales, and now I think it’s time to reach out to everyone else. The farther-afield, the better!

If you have a story of a terrible first date, an appalling attempt at flirtation, or a cringe-worthy one-night-stand, I’d love to hear from you. All contributions will be treated anonymously, for the sake of safety and respect, but I would ask you to enclose your age and your hometown, for reference.

Email me at: ldavidsonwrites@gmail.com

Book Review: “Teaching My Mother How To Give Birth” by Warsan Shire

Title: Teaching My Mother How To Give Birth

Author: Warsan Shire

Genre: Contemporary Poetry

Rating: 5/5

 

Warsan Shire is one of those contemporary poets whose work I’m familiar with, but have never actually bought any of her work. I feel like it might be the same for a lot of people, because I can’t imagine anyone who has spent any length of time on the internet hasn’t ever read at least a few lines of “For Women Who Are Difficult To Love”. It seems like parts of it are quoted on some facebook status every other week, like it pops up on twitter every so often, and is featured on basically every pinterest board I follow; sometimes credited, though often not.

Within the poetry community, of course, she is known. Perhaps not to the extent of other contemporary masters such as Nikita Gill or Rupi Kaur, but enough that I’ve been forcibly told I should hurry up and read her work, already.

Read it I did, and now I can see why so many people admire her so much. It’s true that I knew she’d written at least one poem I loved and thought was genius, but really, that doesn’t mean a great deal. I’ve written at least one good poem that people loved, but that doesn’t mean all of my work is good. Warsan Shire, however, is incredibly skilled with the written word, and to my (admittedly limited) knowledge, has yet to share a bad composition.

All of her work is punchy, crisp, and while not always “relatable”, written in such a manner that you can feel the tragedy and heartbreak as though it were. That’s a hard thing to do, especially in the medium of a poem. The kind of poetry I enjoy most to read is clever and concise –oh, I like Burns and Byron well enough, but it’s flowery and a little frivolous, and it’s lovely, really, but just not my cup of soup.

Warsen Shire’s “Teaching My Mother How To Give Birth” is very much women’s poetry, and while I’m sure there are plenty of men who do and would enjoy it, I feel like the subject matter might not strike them in quite the same way. There were several points where I felt my eyes swimming a little, particularly “Your Mother’s First Kiss” and “The Kitchen”, but the one that hit me hardest was the very last one, “In Love and In War”.

It’s a very short collection, but that by no means diminishes its contents. In actual fact, I’d almost say its brevity lends itself to the overall tone and style of the book.

As I said previously: Clever and concise. Full marks on all counts. Can’t wait to read more from her!

Musing on Project Potential

I found the allen key for my desk chair, so now that sitting here is no longer a (quite literal) pain in my backside, I’ve been thinking about my writing projects for 2018.

I know some of you still linger here hoping for word of my fantasy series, The Redwood War, but just between us and the rest of the internet, I don’t have any motivation to work on it. I’m not saying it will remain unfinished forever; occasionally I get the itch to visit with Naomi and Arun and write a few pages. Still, it isn’t and hasn’t been my main squeeze for some time now.

The real issue is that I just can’t bring myself to write romance at the moment. I’ve always written romance, it’s been my bread and butter since my fanfiction days, but the last year or so I feel like I can’t do anything sincere with the genre. And let’s be frank, there’s plenty of insincere romance novels out there. I certainly don’t want to add to it.

I have been reading more, and of course, writing book reviews. I feel like I let this habit slip the last year, too. Again, though, as much as I’ve always written romance, I’ve always read it as well, and well… I’m just not in love with the notion of romance these days, I suppose.

The question is, where does that leave me? For most of last year, it left me in a weird sort of limbo. I kept trying to write as I always had, but not much came out. My poetry is ongoing, as always, but it’s something I write as and when the mood takes me, and those of you who’ve read it (all five of you) will know it’s all really quite sad, miserable fare. I don’t mind that, but I can’t make it a focus. I don’t want to be that “tortured poet” type, sobbing into my coffee and wearing a plaid shirt and a beanie. I like glitter too much.

No. I need something new. Something contemporary. Something humorous. Most importantly, something honest.

I do have an idea, but it’s something I’d have to handle with a great deal of care and emotional intelligence. I’d like to think these are both things I’m fairly good at, but still, it makes me a little nervous anyway. For now, I’m going to play it close to my chest, but there’s a spark of a story, guys. There’s something happening, and maybe with a little more time and thought, who knows? I might even write a first sentence.