Weight Watchers

            Sometime around August of last year, I decided I should probably get some kind of a part-time job. I was tired of the judgey looks my friends were giving me, not because I wanted to expand my resume or anything. I just wanted to be able to say things like “today is my day off” or “call you after work” or “that was a really hard shift.” I like to have real things to complain about so I seem relatable. I think there’s a pretty fine line between “relatable” bitching and just being a pain in everyone’s ass. I spend most of my life walking that tight line and I wanted to take a proactive step toward the more tolerable side.

I washed my hair and walked into a cupcake shop I had passed a bunch of times on my way to walk around Target while I talked on the phone. I filled out an application and they hired me! The bakery was owned by a pageant mom and a guy that looked like Anthony Weiner who also winked a lot so I figured I’d like it.  All was well in the world of my employment except for one enormous detail that I seemed to have overlooked in all the bliss I was feeling of becoming a respectable young adult with a career. Cupcakes make you super fat when you look at them for eight hours a day with no breaks. Basically all I did for the eight months I worked there was eat cupcakes. Even when I wasn’t at the shop I was eating them. I would hide in the bathroom at social get togethers and eat cupcakes and look at myself in the mirror and scream “LOOK AT YOUR THIGHS!! YOU ARE AN ANIMAL!!” but I couldn’t stop. I became that girl everyone hates. The one that would talk about how fat she was while smashing 1,000-calorie cupcakes into her mouth. Even the bakery manager would poke her head around the corner and passive aggressively whisper “umm just remember you’re only allowed to have ONE free cupcake a day and you’ve far exceeded that” before disappearing into the office to Google her boyfriend. One time a lady came into the shop and said “these are delicious! How are you girls so cute and tiny!” and I think I just deadpanned, “Look at me. I look like Rosanne. I probably have type 2 diabetes but I’m going to go ahead and eat another Mississippi Mud because I have no self worth anymore.” It was really bad. I was like two bites away from pajama jeans. Something had to give.

I went home that weekend and told my mom that I needed gastric bypass surgery and she said she didn’t think our insurance covered that but encouraged me to weigh. I had gained 25 pounds. She suggested I go to a Weight Watchers meeting with her the next day. I didn’t want to. It sounded like a lot of work but I did it anyway because my body was so full of cupcakes there was really nothing behind my eyes anymore. Also, I wouldn’t hate looking like a white girl version of Jennifer Hudson. When we walked in the door we were greeted by an older woman with kind eyes sitting behind a desk. She looked like what Betty Crocker would look like if she too had a blog about different ways to substitute Greek yogurt for sour cream. She made me weigh and wrote my weight down in a tiny book that I was supposed to bring every week. I thought that seemed abrasive. I followed my mother into a large room with rows and rows of bright green, plastic chairs facing a large dry erase board. I was the youngest person there by about 40 years so that made me happy. I’m better received by the elderly. I’m an old soul but I look like I’m 13 and they like that. Before I could make any friends, an energetic (but likeably skinny) man bounced into the room. “GOOD MORNING WATCHERS!” he basically screamed. He was so excited about weight loss. I was so into that. He went around the room and let everyone share something skinny and good that they did that week. After they spoke, he instructed the rest of the group to say “ooooohhh ahhhh” in approval. The couple in front of me was amped about this. They were wearing matching M&M t-shirts and she had M&M earrings and had just taken up daily bike riding. “I don’t know...” she whispered to her husband, “is it notable enough, Honey?” He looked shocked “Sweetie yes!” he said, resting a supportive hand on her knee “any step you take toward your weight loss, is a step in the right direction.” Doris had recently gone on a cruise with her husband and not gained any weight. She got to put a gold star sticker in her book. Marge had had a bad weight loss week and was so down on herself you would have thought she was liquefying Oreo’s and shooting them up behind a Mardel. She didn’t get a star, obviously, but we all let her know that if she stuck to the system she would make it around this dark corner. It was basically AA for chubbies except no one was fat at all, just old. So it was basically Bridge Club.

After everyone was done sharing, we all learned a recipe that was supposed to taste exactly like Red Lobster’s coconut shrimp. Just talking about Red Lobster made me feel safe. I loved it here. After the meeting was over the leader came up and shook my hand and said something like “it works if you work it.” I felt alive. I hated cupcakes in that moment. As I walked out of the brightly colored building and out to my car, I caught a glimpse of myself in the window of a fellow addict’s Lincoln Town Car I still looked pretty bloated, but there was a shimmer of hope in my eyes. I knew that soon, I too, would have my gold star. 

My Bowling Instructor

            I’ve never been good at sports. I’m not saying that in one of those ways where I act like I’m bad at sports but then if you asked me to play a game of tennis I’d show up in head-to-toe Lulu Lemon and hold my own really well. I’m also not saying it in one of those cool hipster ways where my lack of athletic ability can be compensated by my insane ability to do something artistic while looking  toned in gray skinny jeans without ever going to the gym. I’m just horrifically awful at pretty much anything athletic. In middle school, I told my gym teacher I was eternally on my period so he and I could sit on the stage of gymnasium, drink Dr. Pepper and talk about his marriage while the other kids ran laps.

As I got older my morbid lack of coordination became less of a bone of contention in my personal relationships. After a certain point you just learn how to avoid any situation where you’d have to do anything remotely physical. You forget what the humiliation of kickball feels like. You move on. At least that’s what I thought. Then my boyfriend suggested we going on a double date to the bowling alley.

I wasn’t even really nervous or worried. It had just been so long since I had used my arms, I kind of just forgot how they looked when they tried to do things. I mean bowling seems easy enough. Everybody can roll a ball down a slippery wooden hallway, right? Wrong.  I did my usual song and dance. The whole “I’m-so-quirky-and-adorable-that-no-matter-what-happens-im-just-gonna-giggle-my-way-through-this” act that I’ve clung to my whole self-deprecating life. It was kind of my trademark thing. I have always been convinced that if you giggle enough it makes the situation less embarrassing. It didn’t work. I was awful. I literally guttered every ball and you could cut the pity-laced tension in the alley with a knife. I could tell that everyone felt like they’d seen a special needs child get bullied in the hallway or something.  That night as I went to bed I vowed never to touch a bowling ball again.

Eventually that fateful night faded into my memory and I continued with my life, until I made the mistake of mentioning that I wasn’t that good at bowling to my mother over dinner one evening. I could tell she was overly concerned, as she usually was. I could see the wheels turning in her head, but I was in no way prepared for what was next.

She woke me up early the following Monday and announced that she had enrolled me in private bowling lessons. I was mortified but I showed up to the alley at 3pm sharp like I told. I picked a table and waited there pouting, until my instructor walked through the door. She was like an angel in wrangler jeans, Kswiss sneakers, and one of those tans that you can tell has been maintained for way too long. I knew right away this was going to be EXACTLY like Tuesdays with Morrie. She reached out her hand to meet me and as if someone from deep within was speaking for me, I locked eye contact with her and said, “Mold me.”

 By the end of that hour-long session, I was hooked. Granted I hadn’t knocked any pins down yet but I had learned pretty much everything I needed to know about my “coach.” She knew how to fly a plane, had like 60 college degrees, used to be a professional chef in Vegas, had a bunch of time shares, home colors her hair, lives in a mobile home just because she’s a free spirit, is dating like five guys at once that she met on Zoosk, and didn't want me to call after 9pm because she will be busy with one of her boyfriends. Did I mention she installed her own sauna in her mobile home? Usually I’d be annoyed that my bowling instructor was more interesting then me but I was pretty positive she was my spirit animal.

I made an appointment for everyday that week. The second day, she showed me how to hold my shoulders and swing my arm to ensure a straight delivery. She winked at me and told me it was her little secret that she was sharing with me.  The third day we drank green tea and talked about these diet pills she took that aren’t yet approved by the FDA. The fourth day she showed me how to “slide and swing.” The fifth day we talked about her divorce. By the end of the week I had my own ball, bag, shoes, slide sock (bet you don’t know what that is do you?) and I was signed up for her league.

Though I’m really not much better at bowling, I took some very important lessons away from my time with Coach. You know, like never invite two guys you’re dating to Buffalo Wild Wings to watch a Giants game at the same time and that every girl should know how to repair the drainage system in her shower. 

The Urgent Care Waiting Room

I woke up yesterday morning feeling a little under the weather. As the day progressed, it was clear that I had to go to the doctor. There was snot shellacked to my face and my mom kept interrupting my episode of Shahs of Sunset to remind me that it was flu season. I flopped off of my couch and headed to the nearest minor emergency room. When I got there I realized it was packed with people. It was like a germ orgy in there and I was horrified, but I knew I had to stick it out and accomplish my crusade to good health. I marched up to the front desk, looking around defensively at the Medical Center’s inhibitors. “How long?” I said, doing my best to make intimidating eye contact with the skunk-haired receptionist. “Two hours,” she replied flatly. I whimpered a little and picked a seat by the door.

 My waiting room neighbors seemed normal enough, germy but normal. I picked up a WebMD magazine and prepared to start self-diagnosing when I noticed a woman cough her way through the door. She was wearing baby blue flannel pajama pants with penguins all over them and they were backwards, allowing the silver sparkly drawstrings to outline her butt crack.  She also seemed to have forgotten to wear shoes...to a doctor’s office. To make matters worse, she was wearing a red and green shirt with an animated owl on it that read, “Owl I want for Christmas is you.” I hated her instantly yet I was jealous of her. The front desk had given her one of those face masks that made her look like that one emojicon that you never need to use. Her coverall-clad mother and two year old daughter, Arielle, had accompanied her and they picked a seat right next to mine.  Arielle immediately spilled her McDonald’s french fries on the floor and started eating them. For a second I thought Pajama Pants was going to stop her daughter, but instead she just asked her if she remembered how to get home.  PJs seemed to have forgotten. The question made sense; after all she was almost two years of age…she should know that.

I, then, became intensely aware of the other people around me listening closely to every conversation. It turned out to be a circus in there. A raspy voice, soaked in hickish undertones, caught my ear next. “It’s like man porn, babe,” I heard him say. This confused me. Isn’t regular porn supposed to be “man porn?” I turned around to see a man in head-to-toe OSU gear and fur insulated Crocs holding up a picture of a goat on his iPhone to show his voluptuous and hairy looking wife. She just laughed and shook her head.  “Boys and their toys"' she muttered to a terrified looking newlywed couple. I was unaware that livestock could be so erotic. Then, Croc-man started talking to them about how his ex-wife recently bought a gun and that he was scared she was going to kill him. Noticing that the couple couldn’t relate to that issue he tried a different social angle, he snickered and said he was excited to take his daughter to the Justin Beiber/Carly Rae Jepson concert. He winked at the nauseous looking pair and said “brownie point sex.” His wife just smiled and tenderly touched his leg. I immediately went to sit by the newlyweds, they had been through as much as I had at this point and we needed each other. The woman was wearing an approachable looking Ann Taylor Loft outfit and her husband was mildy good looking. Well, not really good-looking, but they both looked clean. We made a lot of “this place, right?” eye contact. We didn’t talk or anything but we were both exchanging auras of classiness and social awareness and that was comforting. Things seemed to be going really well until I heard Ann Taylor Loft shriek. It turns out Pajama Pants had run outside, instead of to the bathroom, and was now barfing violently in front of the window directly behind us while Arielle stood and clapped. I admired the clapping a bit. I think its important that every bodily function be rewarded, but I still couldn’t get over her shoeless ways. We watched, regretfully, as PJs straightened, walked back inside, and started eating a cheese stick underneath her mask. Just when I thought it absolutely couldn’t get any worse, I noticed a little boy crying and a toothless woman comforting him. “Sweetie, your brother is at the doctor because he has a big, big hole in his arm. Gammy could stick her finger right through it and touch all way to his bone!” She then made a motion like she was screwing something into a wall. The boy screamed and ran from his grandmother with a look of sheer terror. 

Finally they called my name…I looked back at the newlyweds to say my goodbyes and though they didn’t say anything, I took their look to mean, “go on, Katherine, get! Go live. Go live for all of us.” That’s exactly what I did.

50 Shades of Crazy

In high school, I made the decision to jump on the bandwagon and read The Twilight Saga. Like a majority of the teenage girl population, I loved it. Unlike the majority of the teenage girl population, it ruined me. I started to get even more fed up with my teenage boyfriend than usual. He was just lazy. I mean my God, if it was raining I needed him to cover me from head to tow in a water repelling shield and carry me to the car. At night, while I slept, I fully expected him to climb into my window and whisper things like “I’ll make sure no one ever looks you in the eye without asking” or “don't worry sweetie, I will viciously murdered all your male friends because I am that in love with you.” He just didn’t do that kind of stuff and I had to break up with him. Those things were reasonable. Like W.W.E.D…what would Edward do, babe? As I grew and matured, I slowly released my Edward Cullen fantasy. I mean it wasn’t really that I stopped finding overwhelming control in a relationship important; I just got way more desperate and forgot about it a little. That is until I read the 50 Shades of Grey trilogy.

That horribly written, kinky sex filled novel became my secret heroin. I knew the implication this might have on me mentally, but I couldn’t put it down. I tried my hardest to use the things my therapist taught me during my Twilight binge, but I just couldn’t stop it from taking a temporary toll on my current relationship. I wasn’t committed to 50 Shades for the whips, chains and other slightly terrifying sexcapades that Anastasia and Christian embarked on, I was in it for the unhealthy level of obsession that he had with her.

The change washed over me slowly but surely as I morphed into a little blonde haired psychopath. “Hey I think I’m going to go out with my friends tonight” I muttered one evening to my boyfriend. “Okay cool have fun,” he responded like the most irresponsible human being I’d ever met. I should have listened to my therapist and calmly walked to the bathroom looked myself in the mirror and said “Katherine, Christian Grey isn’t real. It’s also really strange that, in the novel 50 Shades of Grey…WHERE HE EXISTS…he forces his girlfriend to take a security team with her everywhere she goes. That’s not normal behavior. Also Katherine, you look really pretty today. You should go assert confidence and go make a real human connection instead of wasting your time with romance novels. ” But I didn’t. I snapped. “Look sir” I screamed as I jumped off the couch. I emphasized the ‘sir’ because that’s what Ana calls Christian in the book. “I just told you that I am going to a bar. A BAR. In Norman, OK…a city with an EXTREMELY high crime rate. Like I mean right under DETROIT. And you’re just going to be that nonchalant about me going? I guess I get that you don’t have the financial means to hire a security team 24/7 but you can’t even do it for one night? Oh my god. You’re so cheap. At least force your roommate to follow me around all night and make sure I’m super safe.” He looked stunned which annoyed me even more so I just left. The next morning I had forgotten about it. It was clear I’d suffered from what Summer Roberts on The O.C. calls a “rage blackout.”

 Later that day, and after a few more chapters, I decided to take another cue from the book. I snuck over to his house while he was at work and suspended myself from the ceiling with rope. I thought this would be a nice romantic gesture after a long day of the 9 to 5 but it totally backfired. He told me to leave and not come back until I had let go of “Anastasia” and come back to “Katherine.” I sat on the curb of his apartment building sobbing covered in rope burns and self-defeat. He obviously just didn’t want to evolve with me, right? This couldn’t be my fault. I slowly got up and adjusted the Bloomingdales tag on the Alexander McQueen dress I had bought myself for the occasion with the money I was supposed to be using on school tuition. So 50 Shades of me. 

Then it hit me. I was spiraling again. This sick, sexy, dysfunctional couple was my new Edward and Bella and I needed help. I took a big deep breath and set fire to the book…. well I deleted it off my iPhone but you get the point. I returned the dress, I guess buying it with your parents money isn’t really the same as your megabillionaire lover’s personal shopper buying it for you. My boyfriend eventually took me back and my life is back on track but let this be a warning to all of you. 50 Shades of Grey is a cruel, harsh drug. This isn’t literary child’s play, Ladies. Be careful out there. 

Katherine

An Open Letter to Call Me Maybe

Dear "Call Me Maybe",

I used to consider myself a fairly intelligent person. I read books. I pretended I needed glasses. I used the word “seemingly”…correctly most of the time. I watched documentaries with subtitles. I mean I didn’t enjoy them but I watched them.  I tasted wine and then slowly swished it around in the glass muttering things like “can you feel those rich notes dance on your tongue?” I might even venture to say that people don’t like to invite me to parties because I always have the most interesting historical trivia. But now I’m not that person that I used to be and it’s your entire bubbly, infectious fault, "Call Me Maybe".

I will never forget the first time I heard you, your brain washing melody dripped out of my roommate’s iPhone speaker. I scoffed at you. “HA!”,  I said as I took a sip of my black coffee with a dash of pretension stirred in, “this song is so stupid.” Then something awful and wonderful happened. As you transitioned into the chorus, I felt an almost "Freaky Friday" change come over me. Within those 3 minutes and 13 seconds I had become a completely different person. There is now a pile of rainbow glitter where my cold, judgmental heart used to lie. I don’t walk anymore, I sashay. I call my friends things like “baby girl” and say “totes” with reckless abandon. My ringtone is just a recording of a little kid telling me to have an awesome day. I only wear colors that match the bubble gum I’m using to blow flirty bubbles. The most alarming thing I’ve realized is I am definitely not the only person that this has happened to. My best friend’s boyfriend, "American Chopper cast member look alike with a passion for Duck Dynasty", even wiggles to it. The entire town has turned into a giant dance sequence in a subpar movie and I effing love it.

I guess in short, "Call Me Maybe", thank you. Thank you for allowing the world to shed their converse tennis shoes and inhibitions, start drawing hearts over the I’s on their rent checks, and really live.

Sincerely with Kisses, Colored Eyeliner, and Kitten Smiles,

Katherine 

Hell On Earth: The Cottage Pool

“Through me you enter into the city of woes

Through me you enter into eternal pain,

Through me you enter the population of loss.

 Abandon all hope, you who enter here.”

-Dante’s Inferno

Ever since I lied to my Priest about brushing my teeth during my First Reconciliation, I’ve been 110% sure I’m going to Hell. He asked me what I wanted to confess and I just stared back at him, cloaked in terrified silence. “Well,” he started, “Do you always mind your Mother?” I answered "yes" truthfully. “Have you ever stolen anything?” I said no, frankly insulted that he had even insinuated something so appalling. “Do you always brush your teeth when your Mother tells you to?” Oh God. How did he know? “Uhhhhh…yes.” I lied looking down at my Velcro-fastened shoes in horror. I tossed and turned that night knowing my fate was sealed. I was screwed. There was no way I was going to sit on a cloud watching as much Famous Jet Jackson as I wanted while Angels taught my Polly Pockets to talk after what I had just done. As I grew up I always knew in the back of my mind that I probably didn’t stand a chance. In high school, as I stamped out the Camel Number 9 I was pretending to smoke with my Catholic school required loafer, I knew I had just solidified that fact even more. The thing was, I just didn’t know what form “Hell” would come in. I mean I thought I did. You know "fiery pit with a mean red guy screaming at you to do certain tasks" or maybe somewhere that you could only wear Crocs and you had to do a lot of math. I was wrong. Hell is a much different, much more awful place and I would see it much sooner than expected. 

I’ve decided Hell is different for everyone. You know, like Satan has a Genius application or something that customizes your eternal pain. Unfortunately, mine came in the form of the pool at my apartment complex, The Cottages of Norman. 

When I walked in, I knew something was off. The air smelled of stale, barf-stained fraternity tank tops and Keystone Lights.  As the abrupt “clang” of the metal gate echoed behind me, I knew there was no way out. Immediately my sense of hearing was compromised, deafening my brain with the sounds of "Party Rock Anthem" mashed up with something that sounded like Pit Bull mashed up with Barry Manilow mashed up with a baby crying mashed up with Pink Floyd mashed up with Gladys Knight mashed up with the sounds of take off on the first Apollo mission mashed up with The Jackson 5 mashed up with Mel Gibson’s voicemail to his ex-wife. I knew this was sent to weaken me for the attack. 

I did my best to make it to a lounge chair, wading through the piles of passed out guys named Chad and other bros that weren’t up to the first challenge of the Under World, “Day Drankin’.” I laid down bracing myself for the next phase of the swimming pool prep process, trying my best to ignore the too-loud conversations of the overly tanned and perfectly groomed.  The next thing I heard was “No, but like I’m for real. If he’s gonna be all about her than I’m def. going to make out with that half-Iranian guy that’s been texting me. It’s like 'let me live'….. ya know? YOLO and all that. You think you can smoke weed with your ex after I repeatedly asked you not to and I’m just gonna be like 'yeah, sure honey, I’ll do your laundry and hook up with you whenever?’ So over it. Like already done. Like unclear as to why I'm just now over it.” 

At that point I thought maybe it was a good idea to swim and take my mind off things. I tried to be sexy as I walked over to the pool but the pavement was so hot I just ended up looking like a scene from Bridget Jones’ Diary or something. Once I got in, the pool was so incredibly packed that swimming had become a mere pipe dream. It was like a battle zone, but with a lot more over-the-swimsuit fondling. The worst part was I had absolutely no idea what to do with my hands. Do I put them at my sides? Do I cross my arms? Do I use them to subtly dance? Like seriously, what do I do with my hands? I decided to just throw them straight into the air and make unbreakable eye contact with every well-manicured sorostitute that came my way, showing them that I would not back down. It was every man for himself. I climbed out and dangled my pale legs from the edge. I gazed down at the murky water filled with urine, beer cans and tanning oil, briefly catching a glimpse of my reflection.  A tear came to my eye. “I WANT ANOTHER CHANCE!” I screamed at water Katherine. “PLEASE GOD GIVE ME ANOTHER CHANCE!” Then suddenly the heavens opened up and an angel dropped down in the most unlikely form. “You can’t have glass by the pool”, she barked glancing at my drink, “leave.” 

I’ve literally never missed Mass since.  

A Lesson in Twitter

First things first, this post is not a rant. I also want to say that I’m going to be really annoyed if you call your best friend and tell her that you think I'm a bitch because you read this and realize that you fit into one of these categories. Look sweetheart, if that happens to be the horrendously unfortunate case for you, I’m doing you a favor by pointing it out. If one of the strong powerful black women on The Help pointed this out to you, you would be all tears and thankful hugs. So just stop being such baby and thank me.

That being said, there are some people that just completely suck on Twitter. Before you stop reading, I’m willing to admit I am a slave to social networking. I’m not going to pretend that I have a life. I don’t. I eat out alone often.  Anyway, I check Twitter more than I have actual human interactions, so I do have the authority to make these kinds of accusations about others. I’m also willing to admit that I’ve done some of these things but I’d rather just point fingers at all of you than at myself. So I ask you to look past my own flaws while I totally capitalize on yours.

I have broken these 140 character offenders up into groups. I did this because I like to envision myself as the leader of a hypothetical seminar where people from across the globe have come to allow me to belittle them into a better way of expressing themselves on the internet. It’s just a lot easier for me to hurt your feelings if you’re categorized. So sit down, grab a bottle of tequila, and take notes because I’m about to change your life.

The “Look How Sweet My Boyfriend Is” Barf Bait- By telling us that your boyfriend calls you beautiful every hour on the hour and calling yourself a #luckygirl, you’re not making us swoon. You’re making single girls everywhere consume four boxes of Franzia while watching Titanic and drunk dialing their mom.

The “Shout Out To My Girls” Party Girl- Scenario: Its Friday night. Its’ been a really long week. You’re ready to pound some brightly colored shots with your home girls. Who knows? Someone might kiss someone they don’t know. A top might come off. The possibilities are really endless.  I completely respect this but if you tweet about how happy you are to be with “yo main ladies” every 36 minutes, everyone is going to think you’re sitting in the corner booth alone listening to Kreyshawn on repeat. I know this because my friends and I have done this and woke up having lost close to 10 followers each and a lot of self respect.

The TMI Tweeter- We get it. You have corns. I’m not going to go into that much detail on this one just don’t tweet about your corns, it’s really weird. Same goes with cramps. Don’t tweet about your cramps, girlfriend.

The “Too Many Hash Tags” Train Wreck- This is everyone’s mom. Everyone’s mom who has a twitter has no idea how to properly utilize hash tags. Their tweets are usually like this “Shopping with my #BeautifulDaughter #SoFun #GladShesHome #NeedAXanex #DidISayThat? #YesIDid."  I’m going to be real with you.  I don’t really understand hash tags either but I stay away from them because of that. Also, if you use too many hash tags on Twitter you probably speak with hash tags in real life. In that case, you’re hopeless. I’m done trying to help you.

The Calorie Burner- If you ate four carrots and then spent six hours on the elliptical and then made the colossal mistake of telling me about it, I’m absolutely going to want to fight you. No, seriously. You tweet about that and I’m calling all my friends to talk about you behind your back. This is mainly because there is a 600% chance I have already had Wendy’s that day. You make me feel bad about my double cheeseburger, I tell everyone you made out with your 6^th grade gym teacher. That’s just the way the world works. 

If you realized that any of these were you then I’m sorry for being so harsh..... but.... you’re welcome! I just increased your like-ability by quite a bit. So now, my tragic little Tweeter, take these lessons into your own virtual world and use them wisely. And please, for the love of god, try not to #DropTheBall again.