the story of gerty mcnasty & my jerk uterus

Twenty-nine. 

I am twenty-nine glorious years old.  My facebook feed is filled with chubby-cheeked babies, classic poses by brides on the beach at sunset, status updates about pooping in toilets, and comments about the rat race / work / coffee / bosses / zzzz..... Sorry, I nodded off.  Anway, I enjoy seeing those people with their poofy white dresses, drooling infants, and white picket fences because it means that they are doing what makes them happy.  Getting married, repopulating the earth, collecting shiny items to display in expensive houses... It's all very wonderful.  For them.

I have one hell of an imagination, those who know me can attest, I'm a total weirdo.  However, I cannot fathom myself living that life.  I don't want a stroller that could double as one of the Transformers and costs as much as a plane ticket to the Middle East.  I don't want to work a job I hate (or even merely tolerate) to pay for shit I don't need and a house I can't really afford.  No offense, dear friends and family, nor judgement... just not my dig. 

My feed also occasionally dons the view from Machu Picchu or a dare become reality.  I have been fortunate enough to have collected fantastic friends who randomly move to foreign countries on whim, backpack entire continents in search of the best food, are true artists at heart, and remind me constantly that life is freaking beautiful.  They have even inspired some of my insane (and recently updated) Bucket List items!  However, a major surgery was never on that list. 

Exactly three years ago, I sat down and signed my name on the dotted line to have my insides looked at because I was constantly in pain and my flat little tummy would go from 'pilates video' to 'What to Expect When You're Expecting' in an moment's time.  What they found was endometriosis.  I also found out I was born without my right ovary, which I later began telling people that is why I fall over when I drink.  So, my solo baby-maker paired (ha) with this disease that is eating away at a handful of my organs, I was looking at a five-year window for popping out carbon copies of myself, unless I wanted to contract NASA to come in and make magic happen.  I might be paraphrasing...

"Happiness depends upon ourselves." -Aristotle

I had just ended my engagement after a five-year relationship, I had just started doing corporate marketing for a fantastic company, and I was 1,500 miles from my family.  I wasn't in a position to make any major decisions and thank sweet Lady Godiva that I didn't. Anything involving the human body deserves both objective and subjective thinking, and time was about to become my best friend. 

Flash forward to this semi-sunny week in July of 2013.  I am single, working at a non-profit helping people save their homes, planning the big move to Japan, and just aced my last class that has been plaguing me for ages.  I am also now scheduled for a massive, life-changing surgery.  This is about to get personal kids, but let me tell you why I am choosing to divulge this information before I throw all my lady cards on the table:

We are all in this game together.  Things like race, gender, sexual orientation, religion, and the rest of the identifiers don't matter: we are all human.  If I can't be there to help someone else who is hurting and alone, I am doing this world a disservice.  If someone reads this- whether they reach out to me or not- and is encouraged or relieved, even if only for a moment, I have done something.  Complacency, apathy, and indifference are the true evils in this world.

Back to my lady cards.  My uterus is trying to kill me.  That whiny bitch throws a temper tantrum every month because she made me a beautiful present- this egg- and I don't do a damn thing with it.  So, that Jezebel burns down the house.  My single ovary is working over-time because her twin got hammered and never showed up.  She's exhausted, freaking out, and running out of eggs, so she's pissy with everything around her.  The rest of my organs are frozen in fear, wondering how messy this is about to get; there could be a riot on the horizon.  My abdomen is making that face people make when they are thinking, "Don't do it, bitch.  Don't you dare, oh, hell no!  That look pisses off my bratty uterus, who then decides she's going to get back at everyone north of her by literally throwing herself into the chaos that she started.  Bitch, you don't belong here.  Where is your passport?  You don't have one!  Deported!  Cue: Riot.

Yes, I understand that anthropomorphizing my internal organs is morbid.  So is the fact that my best ladybird gal-pal and I both only have one ovary and so we gave them best friend names.  Mine is Gerty McNasty. 

The bottom line is that my quality of life is not where I want it.  It is 2-3 months of no traveling, no playing, and none of the good stuff every time a doctor has to go in there and clean up my stupid uterus' non-baby-mama-drama.  I am collecting scars like it's the 90's and they are Pogs.  (Yep, I went there.)  I'm always exhausted, I feel like I'm 59, not 29.  I cancel on my friends constantly because I cannot muster the energy to socialize.  I hurt every day.  Every.  Day.  There are no tests or scans for endmetriosis.  Pain is not a direct indicator of damage done.  There is no cure.  There are no pills or drugs that can fix it.  There are shots out there for temporary, chemically-induced menopause, there are birth control pills for suppressed symptoms, and there are surgeries for cauterizing the lesions and implants.  Until they slice me open and poke around inside of me, they have no idea what the hell is going on in there.  I'm basically a piñata.  A piñata filled with bitchy organs.

My initial surgery to remedy my internal civil war was scheduled for September, but was quickly moved up due to complications.  Yes, I did my research on both the procedure and my doctor.  The procedure is called a hysterectomy (uterus).  I decided to keep my cervix for personal reasons, plus it is like Switzerland: neutral and just here for a good time.  My doctor worked on my sister a few years back and has a great track record.  Her bedside manner doesn't suck, so I gave the thumbs up.

Update: I have decided to retain Gerty and wait on the oophorectomy... Trusting God on this one... 

The idea of being a mother is mind-blowing, and I have the utmost respect for those who do it, especially alone.  I also do not believe that the traditional definition of being a mother is the only truth by any stretch of the imagination.  If my body is telling me that putting a baby in my belly isn't my path, then I need to listen up.  Besides, I can just collect little kids from all my favorite countries as I travel.  I would be thrilled to collect the whole set: The Multigrain Family.  Who knows, perhaps I can get a 2-for-1 deal if I buy in bulk.  I need to call Angelina Jolie and see if she can put in a good word for me.

Kidding...

The majority of my life has revolved around children: nanny, swimming instructor, Sunday School teacher, youth leader for my church, English teacher... I love kids.  Each of those positions required me to teach, lead by example, touch a life, and make a difference; is that not the definition of a mother?  I have to look at this pending surgery as a list of Pros & Cons, not as removing my ability to be a nurturing mother, because I have been doing that my entire life.  When I was 4, I fell at pre-school and split my chin wide open (yes, I have a scar from that as well).  The school called my mom to come pick me up and, upon arrival, she found me with one hand propped up on my knee with ice in-hand, holding my bloody chin, and the other arm slung around another child with a book.  I was reading to him while I waited to go to the doctor. 

This post is me putting my arm around anyone out there who is dealing with a disease, condition, or decision in their life.  Whether it is your jerk uterus, punkass balls, or some other rebellious non-reproductive organ... I got your back.  The bottom line is this: You must be true to yourself.  You cannot give a half a damn what anyone else thinks.  Yes, it is important to discuss this with family and friends, gain perspective, etc.  However, in the end, this is my body, my jerk uterus, and my life.  Comparison is the thief of joy, kids.  I can't compare my one little bastard ovary to my overly-fertile friend's dynamic duo; I'd go positively mad. 

The hardest part of this whole process is trying to talk to people about it- like my doctor- who don't know me well enough to pass judgment.  When I went to talk to my doctor about it, she said this little gem to me:

"What if you meet the man of your dreams?"

Shut the front door.  Really?  If the man of my dreams doesn't want to be with me because I can't make a tiny human in my loins, then he is not the man of my dreams, I assure you.  Those of you who have been a reader for a while know that I lack a filter, so I fired back with a smirk:

"What if I meet the woman of my dreams?" 

Checkmate.  She stopped talking and started listening.  People need to stop spoon-feeding societal standards to others like it is the only acceptable form of sustenance.  I have felt judged, like I am a freak and heartless, all because I would rather live my life for me and be happy & healthy, rather than spend mountains of money and stress non-stop over making my DNA hook up with some dude's and in a hot rush. 

"But Amie, what about in vitro?"  Why would I spend tens of thousands of dollars to maybe get pregnant?  A lot of women end up with four freaking kids when they mess with that stuff!  For that price, I could fly to Kenya, go on safari, adopt a child, feed the orphanage for a week, and buy a gift for the lady who is having four freaking kids because of in vitro.

"But Amie, what about a surrogate?"  Hmmm... "Hey, lady, hold my baby.  For 9 months.  Oh, and then go away, because it's mine.  Gimmie.  Wait, change their diaper first."  Aside from the aforementioned monetary cost, this one is still tricky.  I'll keep you updated.

"But Amie, what about having a lot of sex with a guy and just trying?"  Trust me, that crossed my mind.  Oh, and I tried that.  Though it would be a very enjoyable experiment, the result- you know, the important part- isn't a goal.  This is someones life.  I don't want to bring a person into this world just because I might be able to. 

"But Amie, what about having a lot of sex with a girl and just trying?"  Nice try.  

The hardest part of this procedure for me will be losing a part of me that is vital to feeling feminine.  I'm tall, I have some curves (thankfully in the right places), and I have the mindset of a twenty-something dude.  I need to feel pretty, delicate, sexy, and feminine... So they're going to take out what essentially makes me a woman... Rad.  My family has been supportive, providing as many hugs as they do questions.  My bosses let me put my head down on my keyboard until I have a page and a half full of the home row keys on my screen.  My close friends offer a full glass of wine and a full bottle of Advil whenever I make it off the couch. 

Despite all that jazz, it has been quite lonely.  I know this isn't the easiest subject to deal with, and bitches be crazy, but I would like to feel I have managed to have a pretty firm grasp on all this.  So, dear friends and strangers alike, if you run into me or end up sipping whiskey with me on a Tuesday night, please don't freak out.  I don't expect you to know what to say or how to comfort me, just be cool like the fuzz is watching and all will be well.  If it will help, here is a solid list for those who couldn't buy a clue with a $100 bill.  

  

Guidebook to Amie's Hysterectomy 

x  Don't pity me.  

✔ Do buy me a drink.  

x  Don't avoid me.

✔ Do ask how I am doing. 

x  Don't let me get bored... Entertain me.

✔ Do just tell me, "I'm here".  That'll do, pig. 

x  Don't forget how hilarious I am on pain killers.

✔ Do come visit me.  Seriously... We can color and watch Disney movies...

I don't expect anyone to understand what I am going through, even another Hyster Sister.  This is an incredibly personal journey and I am lucky to be doing it at a transitional point in my life.  Yes, I am saddened by this, yet another jagged turn in the road that will change my body for the rest of my short but powerful life.  Simultaneously, I am honored to be trusted with such a massive task and given the opportunity to shine through as a positive soul.  I am nervous that I won't be the same afterwards.  I am more nervous that I will be exactly the same afterwards.  More than anything, I am excited.  I am excited to be pain free.  I am excited to never have "that time of the month" again.  I am excited to be freed from my chains.  

Let's recap what we have learned today, class: 

• My uterus is a jerk.
• I am a gypsy.
• I like mismatching children.
• I don't care what gender you are.
• I named my only ovary.
• I use inappropriate humor as a coping mechanism.
• I'm pretty funny.
• I want to watch movies with you while I am high. 

So, as I awkwardly stumble into this adventure, I try not to spill my drink & I thank everyone for their support, patience, kind words, and offers to carry my hypothetical future unborn children or lift me off the couch.  August 28th will be yet another insane moment in my life... Cheers to many more.

xx.a



musical hearts

After silence, that which comes nearest to expressing the inexpressible is music.

-Aldous Huxley

My bare feet on the hardwood floors of my room here in Quito slowly exchange places as I wander between my four walls, cup of freshly brewed coffee warming my hands and my hair falling over my shoulders as I collect discarded pieces of days passed.  Rain drops hit my window and cause the plants outside to dance to the melody made by the collaboration with the glass.  Adele pours from the speakers of the laptop on my bed and seems to roll across my alpaca blanket and float off the edges and dance around me.  My jeans scrape the floor as I step to the window and listen to Adele mix with the sounds of the rain on the pavement and I return to my bed and close my eyes to allow Adele's sultry voice to take me to a peaceful, yet passionate, place... A place I am sure I could not have reached without her.  A place where I do not believe I could have reached with Snoop Dog or Thrice, though, admittedly, I am a fan of both.  

We have all been in a place where the music sets the tone of the moment: getting ready with the girls for a night out calls for Pink's "Raise Your Glass" and driving down Pacific Coast Highway with the windows down and the sun kissing your skin calls for "Drive" by Incubus.  The more I travel, the more types of music I am exposed to, and the more I find myself connecting memories with a soundtrack. The emotion we associate with songs can define a moment (a la romantic comedies) or create within us an undeniable alegra. 

I wanted to explore what it is about a song- or music in general- that moves us to move mountains for a chorus or dive the depths of the sea for a hook.  I figured, where better to find the source of the emotion of the song than the songwriter? 

I wrote to my good friend, Paul Stark, in Dallas, Texas in hopes of grasping an understanding of such an intangible gift.  I asked him to shine some light on my newest blog subject, and to no surprise, he did just that.  The songwriter wrote: 

"I used to sit and look at pages of lyrics and have no 

idea how to bring them together, then I would put together 

a song and hate it. I didn't like my own songs, even 

though everyone around me requested to hear them, 

they all seemed to have more of a connection to them than i did. 

 That's when I started writing songs for myself and no one else. 

When i started doing that, true emotion started coming through 

because it was what I was feeling at the time... 

it was very real to me. 

When a song has true emotion, the listener can 

feel it and THAT is when they make an emotional 

connection to the song. Then, things started to flow... 

I realized why so many song writers write so vaguely-- 

because even though they know exactly how 

the song translates to for them, and what it means, 

it can translate into something completely different for someone else. 

That's the cool thing about music: it is interpreted. 

No one hears it through the same ears. 

So, to answer your question, 

"What do you hope your music does for people?"... 

I hope it does exactly what they want it to."

I inquired about Paul's latest release, "Jump", as a follow up to his first original, "Avalanche", it had big shoes to fill.  Paul told me the song is about himself and a girl, and the only thing holding them back from something that could be really great was the fear that she would get hurt like she had been in the past. The song was his effort to get her to "jump", to take a risk on him, as well as on them...

"...she felt it

...I felt it

...so jump."

I loved the message of "Jump" so much that I found my attraction to this song growing and growing with every repeat on YouTube.  "Avalanche", on the other hand, though I loved the strong lyrics, the guitar is what caused me to fall in love with the song.  His clean playing style and soulful melodies had me hooked.  Like any good musician, Paul has all of his social networking ducks in a row.  Paul Stark Music on facebook, his YouTube channel has a few of his songs (with more to come) and his Twitter account is building quickly... Please take some time to have a listen and enjoy.  Your ears, and most likely your heart, will thank you.

Without music, life would be a mistake.
-Friedrich Nietzsche

I also wrote to my father, a longtime musician and songwriter, who I owe my appreciation of music to almost wholly.  I asked him what kept him in love with music after 50 years of loving, fighting, breaking up, reuniting, and creating beautiful miracles together.  My father has continuously surprised me over the last 20 something years, and I believe that I inherited a lot of that from him.  The response I received not only helped me understand him even more than I believed I already did, but helped me realize why I do what I do when it comes to music.  I connect.  I live and die through some songs.  I can hear "Hands Down" by Dashboard Confessional and think back to my senior year in high school, when I was dating a junior in college, and remember the emotions that were associated with our dating and our break-up.  I can hear "Hero" by Mariah Carey and remember rewinding the cassette tape (shut up) two or three (ok, twenty three) times over and singing on the top of my lungs as I imagined myself on stage in front of thousands of people. 

"As I started playing guitar, I found a new level in enjoying music. 

I thought everybody had songs going in their heads 

all the time like I did. Not true, I found.  

I also found some had others tunes going, 

but not new, unheard music like I did. 

When I started playing in bands, I didn't pay much attention 

to "cover" songs. We did a few, but we did play 

songs that I or we wrote. 

The world had changed for me, again."

My father started teaching me to play guitar at the ripe old age of 16.  He broke down chords for me, simplified power chords (hey, my hands aren't as big as his) so I could play more songs, and helped me break down the strumming patterns of my favorite songs. I began hearing music differently, as well.  I heard strumming patterns, bass lines, drums that swayed my emotions... I realized it wasn't just a singular thing that determined how I reacted to a song: It was a collaboration beyond words. 

I detest Coldplay.  There.  I said it.  I understand if you want to stop reading and call me a communist in the comment section, so be it.  However, before you line me up in front of the firing squad, know that one of my absolute favorite songs is "Fix You" by the very band I cannot stomach.  One day, I was on this thing called "YouTube" (it should make it big one day...) and I discovered a cover by a group called "Boyce Avenue".  After listening to their cover of "Fix You" I found my eyes closed, tears streaming down my face, my hand on my heart, and my body involuntarily swaying to the sweet and simple sounds emanating from the speakers.  Whoa.  I mean, I love this song, but, really?  The arrangement wasn't too different, but I found their version touched me differently than the somewhat over-produced original. I started seeking out more covers to see if it was just this one song, just Boyce Avenue, or if there was a massive abundance of covers that were going to rip my heart away from my allegiance to the originals.  Turns out, there is a solid mixture of both.  I believe that everyone is affected differently by each song.  Personally, I am a sucker for a prominent guitar any day.  My good friend here in Ecuador, Juan David, is a drummer and will pick a song with solid drumming over everything else, without fail, regardless of lyrics or overall sound.

"Making music with friends is as good as sex. When a band is clicking together, it's almost telepathic. You glance at the drummer and lock eyes and the punches or changes are tighter, more together and sometimes happen spontaneously. All the band starts to feel it and the harmonies get tighter, everybody is smiling and you feel safe and supported by the band. You take a solo, knowing that they won't fall apart without you. You get to soar, feel the notes flying off your finger tips. You play things you didn't know you could do 2 minutes ago and feel 10 feet tall. Time ceases to exist as all you are is a guitar and a song. U2 said it as they recorded All Along The Watchtower. "All I have is this guitar, 3 chords and the truth". And, like a teenager that discovered sex, you can't wait to do that again."

My father's words.  This may be the very reason why we become addicted to music and find ourselves in a pseudo-relationship with songs.  If musicians pour themselves into these songs as my father described; no wonder the emotions bind us to their verses! Regardless of where your musical interests lie, it is undeniable that music is innately a part of us and is a massive part of our lives.  Every movie, every major event in our lives, and every relationship has music... And I wouldn't have it any other way. 

  

A painter paints pictures on canvas.  But musicians paint their pictures on silence.  

-Leopold Stokowski

xx.a

vulnerability: a four letter word

Vulnerability is one of the most dichotomous words in the English language. With over a billion words in our convoluted communication system, that's saying a lot. Vulnerability refers to the susceptibility to physical or emotional injury, or refer to a person who lets their guard down, leaving themselves open to criticism. Conversely, vulnerability can be a romantic and noble concept, discussing the permission granted to those we believe won't damage us beyond repair. It has become a four letter word. People are more comfortable swearing in church and being criticized than standing for something and being unsure of the outcome.


We constantly attempt to issue permission to people in regards to vulnerability. We "let down our walls" or require our potential friends or mates to break them down wrecking-ball style. The question is: Why? It's understandable (and a little cliché) that no one likes to be hurt, but have we all forgotten that sweet isn't as sweet without the bitter? How are we supposed to appreciate the warm kiss of the sun without the cold shoulder of the storm?


So, when we decide to take a chance on people, we open ourselves up and allow them to touch a part of us and change us forever. There is something to be said for allowing the UNusual suspect in, in an effort to broaden your horizons. I have always followed the mantra:


Hope for the best, prepare for the worst.


This way, I stay positive and give people a stellar chance to show me they're innately good, all the while protecting myself from irreparable damage and heartache. I allow myself to be vulnerable to the person, not people, as the individual is responsible for their actions, not mankind. Just because some dickead in your Psych class didn't call you after your hook up, doesn't mean that all men are jerkoffs. Heck, he might not even be one:


Seek first to understand, then be understood.


I have been burned badly- we're talking third degree here, people- but what is the point of living this short and sweet life pushing people away? Even more so, why meander through the streets allowing your only connection with your fellow man be the accidental bump of the shoulder and an unintelligible grunt of what is only assumed to be an apology, but who really knows?

I was recently reminded that vulnerabilities are not limited to susceptibility of an attack from an outside force or the romantic heart strings that might be plucked too hard. It is also standing up and applying yourself to a new vocation and hoping you've done well enough to be approved. It's smiling at a stranger in hopes they don't just glance away awkwardly. It's speaking to someone at an airport, then switching seats onboard to continue your newfound connection, whatever that may end up being. Just enjoy it. Don't make a federal case out of everything, appreciate the moment, and know you'll look back and it will have been what it should've been... But don't pussyfoot it. (Yes, I said pussyfoot.) You can miss out. BIG TIME. I have only one minor regret in my life and it was something I did NOT do, not something I did. Most people regret the things they didn't have the balls to do, not the little mistakes they made.


So, go do it. Let yourself be vulnerable, no matter what it is. Dudes, call the girl for a movie, she'll appreciate the forwardness. Ladies, you can call, too, but don't be afraid to grab a 12-pack and surprise him with a pizza night on the couch and some making out. Bosses, take a risk on the applicant who really needs the job. People, apply for the job, even if you're not sure. Humans of all races, sexualities, & religions, open your minds and let's move passed tolerance and into acceptance. Open a door for others, dance like you don't give a half a damn, kiss her when she gives you 'that look' and let go of the traditions that bind you. Take a chance, be vulnerable. Be epic.


xx.a

dynamics of goodbye

Goodbye.  It's not such an awful word... There are more appealing versions of it: farewell, ciao, so long, until we meet again...  I understand that the notion of goodbye is tough on some people, and for good reason, but I think that goodbye has become an egocentric notion that does not allow for the individual leaving to make the best of their situation.  I prefer to meet goodbyes with a positive mindset:  


May the road rise up to meet you, may the wind be ever at your back. May the sun shine warm upon your face and the rain fall softly on your fields. And until we meet again, May God hold you in the hollow of his hand. -Irish Blessing


In other words, "Thanks for being a part of this chapter of my life".  Recent events have lead me to finally pursue my dream of teaching English abroad, and my friends and family are handling it... differently.  That is literally the only word that accurately describes the group and individual efforts of those that reside in my life.  Some of my nearest and dearest friends have rallied behind me in a united effort; offering to help with costs of certification, help me study, help teach me Spanish... You name it.  Some friends have retreated behind the front line in an effort to avoid being wounded in battle.  It wouldn't bother me so much if these individuals communicated with me, but I suppose that is asking too much.  


It is so difficult to walk away from people you love, and I would know, as I have done it more than anyone I know.  (In my defense, I wasn't running away from anything or anyone, it was all for higher education, career moves, etc.)  However, if approached from the right perspective and emotional base, it can also be a character-building experience.  Sometimes you have a choice in walking away, such as I do, and you just have to hope that those around you support you and send you off with love and well-wishes.  Sometimes, you are pinned to the wall and don't have an inch to breathe.  It is then that you hope your loved ones will rally, open their arms and hearts, and make the best of the situation in an effort to ease the pain and stress of your departure.  People who shut down, run away, or become a shadow of their former selves are often the ones that hurt the most: hurting themselves and hurting those leaving.  

Try to remember that leaving is the closing of one chapter, but it is also the beginning of a fresh and beautiful chapter for your loved one.  Be open minded, share your self, and hope for the best for everyone.  Some things have to fall apart for others to come together... That is the beautiful dichotomy of life.  You cannot fall in love with your soulmate if you are in a relationship with someone else


Don't cry because it's over. Smile because it happened. -Dr. Seuss 


This blog was initially about my departure, but life has a funny way of mixing things up... 


To my second family:  You will always be blood.  You will always live in my heart.  You will always be Mamma K, Oh Daddy Pappa K, Tuta Taquito, Kiwi Wiggle Beans... Of course, KyKy, too.  Lucky's bark will almost be missed, but her spirit and beer drinking abilities will be.  You compose half my stories, millions of inside jokes, the best memories, and I am who I am because you were here.  I cannot thank you enough for everything you have ever done for me, nor all that you have given me.  You are the true definition of family.  Thank you for loving me.


To tequila out the eye.
To Ray Charles in log cabins.
To only if you'll take me.
To crash. 
To wedding dresses.
To nerd glasses. 
To writing on the family room floor. 
To Laguna Beach. 
To limo rides to Vegas.
To falling up escalators. 
To the Oh Daddy dance. 
To Mexico.
To pole dancing. 
To songs for everything. 
To pot smoking lesbian lovers.
To Coors Light. 
To drunken chair racing. 
To drunken cooler racing.
To guitars and Maaammmmmma Kriiisitiii.
To Kevin and Art are lovers.
To Paprika. 
To Sunday Funday. 
To Angels baseball in the garage.
To being a lady.
To cutting someone.  Twice. 
To buttery nipples. 
To SoCo... but don't tell.
To half pints.
To garage time.
To brown on top, red on the bottom.
To HGTV & DIY junkies.
To mimosas.
To potato/tomato/cake.
To soccer.
To bang the drum. 
To drunk dogs. 
To LYMI 
To I'd do it myself but I don't have thuuuumbs.
To build me up, buttercup.
To stfu.
To family.
To the people who changed my life for the better.  You are irreplaceable. 

xx.a