Last Week or My MRSA Ordeal

Last week was an absolute cluster-fuck, as weeks go.  What I thought was a bladder infection turned out to be something completely different.  I may have had a touch of a bladder infection, but that was the least of my worries.

I’ll try to use clinical terms as much as possible to confuse the people who are thrill seekers or just flat stupid and won’t go look shit up on Google because they don’t know how to Google anything.  If you happen to be in the medical field, please don’t fill in the details for the dipshits because they really don’t need to know more gory details than they get from just reading my blog.

For some bizarre reason, I had a labial abscess crop up on Wednesday.  It’s not like I don’t take care of myself.  I do.  I’m meticulous about cleaning all my parts.  So, Thursday, when this abscess had grown to the size of a ping-pong ball, I called Brian and said “it’s out of hand, I’m going to Urgent Care to get it looked at.”

I headed for the Urgent Care clinic over at JPS and got hustled through pretty quickly.  I get to see the doc and she’s all like “that looks like it hurts.”  I said, “Yeah, it hurts like hell.  Could you please just drain it, gimme some antibiotics and send me packing?”  She measured it because it was so fucking huge and then suddenly she was all “well, I don’t think I’m the right person to be doing this because of its location.”  So, she sends me up to OB Triage, which is where they send women when they have bizarre shit going on with their girly parts.

So, they send me upstairs and I begin my ordeal.  I feel like crap and I have this labial abscess that’s the size of a fucking ping-pong ball, which makes sitting, standing, and walking a bitch.  I wait.  I wait some more.  Then Leah comes in and she’s all “so, lenme see it.”  She sees it and then tells me she’s gotta go get the doctors so that they can evaluate and formulate a plan of action.  So, obviously this thing is a fucking freak of nature and I start thinking that I’ve grown a testicle or something because she’s calling everyone in to look at it.  Dr. C comes in.  He looks at it.  He feels it.  Then he says he doesn’t think he’ll “get anything out of it.”  I start wondering if he expects there to be a prize inside it like I sprouted a Cracker Jack box or some shit.  He leaves and goes somewhere for a while.  Tammy comes in and tells me that they’re working on a plan.

A little while later, I hear Dr. C standing outside my little room and he’s talking about how he could try to drain it, but he doesn’t think he’ll get anything out of it.  I start crying thinking that I’m stuck in pain for God knows how long because the doctor is some prize junkie asshole who doesn’t want to help me.  Tammy comes back in and is really sweet.  She tells me they’re waiting for another doctor to answer his page.  I lay there, totally defeated, wishing I could shoot a real ping-pong ball outta my snatch just so Dr. C can at least say he got hit in the head with a ping-pong ball to all his colleagues since he seems bent on walking away with some sort of novelty.

Later, Dr. C brings Dr. M, Leah, and Tammy into my little room for my consult.  I realized that they weren’t anxious to help me, so I did the only thing that any self-respecting girl who was hurting down there could do: I cried my ass off to win their sympathy.  I mentioned pain.  I mentioned pressure.  I mentioned not being able to walk or sit comfortably.  All of which was the absolute truth, but they didn’t give a shit about until I was crying.  Finally, Dr. C relents and says that he’ll do an Incise & Drain to relieve the pressure and some of the pain, despite the fact that he doesn’t think he’s going to get anything out of it.  Seriously?  I’m bawling my eyes out and he’s still looking for a fucking prize?

Everyone but Tammy leaves my little room.  She tells me that they have to share Dr. C with Labor & Delivery, which is why I’m still laying there. Then she leaves to go prep for my procedure.  I call Brian and tell him what’s going on.  He tells me he’s on his way back to the shop so he can get a ride and come up to be with me.  I relax a little thinking that Dr. C will be a while.  He’s an ass hat and I really don’t like him, but I’m in no mood to fight to get someone else who isn’t a total prize whore.  A few minutes later, Tammy is back, laying out all the goodies to drain my monster abscess.  While she’s doing that, Dr. C shows back up looking all butt hurt about the lack of a prize from me.  They inject lidocaine into the surrounding area and Dr. C gives my abscess a squeeze to see if I’m numb.  I was pretty numb.  He made the incision, which only hurt a tiny bit.  Then, he starts poking around and I’m okay until…WTF! I FUCKING FELT THAT, YOU PRICK!  I scream and let them know that I can feel him digging around for whatever fucking prize he thought would be there but isn’t there because I’m not a fucking Cracker Jack box.  He injects a little more lidocaine and then waits for a few seconds.  This time he got all the nerves and I couldn’t feel a thing. Much better, Dr. Ass Hat.  He fondled my abscess for about 5 minutes before he looked me in the eye and said, “I was right, I didn’t really get anything out of it, but I think it was caused by an ingrown hair.” (HA!  Nothing like a doctor’s excuse to get you out of shaving the non-essentials.)  He doesn’t put a drain in because he swears there was no pus, as is expected with an abscess.  So, he tells me that he’s going to treat this like MRSA just to be sure and I’ll have to be ever so diligent with my antibiotics.  Also, I have to shower with special soap and shove ointment up my nose for the next week.  Brian showed up after Dr. C was done with his sadistic groping, but got to hear the part about the possible MRSA.

They finally cut me loose from the hospital and we went to drop off my prescriptions at the pharmacy.  I also got Vicodin for the pain, which is still present, but not quite as bad.  I’m a ball of fun when I’m taking Vicodin, so that’s when I try to write.  I started my first dose of the antibiotic that night and kept the pain pills in my system to minimize the pain when the lidocaine wore off.

Sometime in the middle of the night, I started running a fever.  What woke me up was a violent case of the shivers.  I was so cold that I really didn’t want to get out of bed.  I knew I needed to take my temp and take something for the fever, but I couldn’t make myself get up outta bed.  So, I managed to wake up Brian and he went to get the thermometer, some Vicodin, and a drink.  He brought me water, which I didn’t mean to complain about, but ewwwww.  I hate water.  I went back to sleep.

Around 7:00, I woke up and moved to the couch because the dogs were crowding me in bed.  At 8:00, I took my antibiotic and another Vicodin.  I fell asleep watching something on TV, still running a fever.  I woke up around 11, took my temp and it was 102.9.  I felt like a couple of Mack trucks had run over me repeatedly.  Then, I called my mom.  It’s what I do when I feel like shit.  I’m talking to her, telling her about how I feel like crap, and there in front of me is the after-care sheet they gave me from the hospital.  It says that if I start running a fever over 101.2, I should immediately return to OB Triage so I can be seen.  I told Mom and she’s all “so go back to the hospital and get yourself taken care of.”  I didn’t wanna.  I didn’t want to see Dr. C again because he didn’t wanna help me the first time around.  She convinces me to call and, of course, I do. Leah tells me I should come in.  I explain to her that I really don’t want to go back up there.  She said that was understandable, but made a deal with me that if I could get my fever down by the time my next dose of antibiotic rolled around; I didn’t have to go back in.  So, I took a few ibuprofens and made sure that I drank plenty of fluids.  Luckily, my temp was back to normal by the time 8:00 rolled around.

Now, things are getting back to normal with the exception of having to take antibiotics, shove ointment up my nose twice a day, and shower with special soap for the next week.  But I feel better.  I’m still kind of achy, but it’s getting better every day.

I realize that not everyone will have enjoyed this post.  I didn’t have much else to write about and frankly, I can only take so much Vicodin to make things interesting.  Seriously, I debated for a long time about whether or not to actually publish this because of the simple fact that it’s so personal.  But I’ve always been prone to over-sharing.  The actual message I wanted to convey in this blog is that anyone can have MRSA and they need to take it seriously.

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Fictionary

Anyone who has really known me over the last 25 years knows that I love to write stories. My friend, Harold and I used to compete to see who wrote better smut. I could call it romantic prose, but it borders on porn. So Harold and I would pass these short stories back and forth in an attempt to outdo each other. It really taught me a lot about writing. And it also revealed my competitive side. I wrote my ass off and beat him a few times.

I love to write. It truly is my passion. I’m thinking about marketing my blog and getting paid to say fucked up shit every day. How cool would that be?

Last night, I felt like writing some fiction. The thing about starting a short story or novel is that, in the rough draft, about 50% of what you write is crap. I mean, bad crap that you read and say, “what the hell was I trying to say?”. But the rough draft is where you get the basics out of your head and onto a hard drive.

I started out last night with a goal of 1500 words. It may not seem like much, but it’s harder when you’re writing fiction. I ended up with over 2700 words, which thrilled me to no end. I always push myself a little harder in the beginning because I don’t use outlines. If I use anything, I will write a character description so I can keep details straight.

I really am hoping that this story will be one that I can post here or get published somehow. I love to have readers enjoy my stories and blogs.

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Falling Apart

I’m 40.  Not a bad age, but not a great age either.  My vision is shot to hell.  I can no longer eat anything with tomato sauce unless it is preceded by an acid reducer.  My recovery time for staying up late is a lot longer.  I have hot flashes and violent mood swings. And now, my shoulder aches for no good reason.  Ladies and gentlemen, getting older sucks.

So why bring this up now?  My shoulder is the main reason I even decided to write on this particular subject.  I’m not sure why my shoulder is so sore, but it seems to be linked to my boobs.  Yes, my boobs.  My shoulder hurts worse where my bra strap rides on my shoulder, so I have to assume that my boobs are slowly destroying my shoulder.  But what could my boobs possibly have against my left shoulder?  What was it doing that pissed them off so?  I haven’t a clue. Or maybe it’s that my boobs pissed off my shoulder and my shoulder has decided to boycott supporting my boobs.  Either way, it’s bad for the rest of me.

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Compulsion

For a writer, many times, the urge to write is compulsive.  Especially for those of us who are “unpublished”.  While the internet is a beautiful thing, many of us strive to be published in paper by a publishing company, which means we become professionals.  I’d love nothing more than to become a professional writer.  My dream is to write a novel and have millions of people fall in love with my prose.  The likelihood of that is diminished since lately I haven’t been able to produce much fiction.  I want to write.  I feel the compulsion to write.  But I’m missing something creatively right now and that’s what is stopping me from producing the next great American novel.  Hmm.  What to do?

I can blog almost daily about something…anything.  I read the headlines, something pisses me off or inspires me, and I go to town in a blog.  But it’s not fiction, it’s opinion.  I have a creative mind and want more than anything to get the images in my head out into print.  But it’s a process.  A long process.

I’m starting to think I need to just write for a couple of hours every night, even if what I pump out is pure crap.  Surely some good will come of it.  Maybe.  The least I can do is try.  November is National Novel Writing Month (NaNoWriMo) and last year, I didn’t write.  I should have. I really should have.  I think I’m going to try to sit down and write every day, see what I can pump out.  See how coherent I can be.  See if I can rise to the challenge.  I’ve got to empty my head of all these images.  For me, it’s like a movie playing in my head–these scenes I see so vibrantly.  But lately I haven’t felt like writing.  I keep letting myself off the hook when it comes to the thing I love doing the most.  So, I need to focus on a single project.  I need to let the compulsion to write take over a few hours every night and just do it.

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The Off Switch

I wish my brain had an off switch.  I wish that I could just go lay down, flip a switch, and then fall blissfully asleep.  It’s never that simple though.  It hasn’t been that simple since I was 11.  I can usually blame some of my insomnia on my period.  Tonight it’s my inability to shut off my mess of a brain.  And Brian’s snoring isn’t helping.  It’s not sonic boom loud, but it’s loud.  I’m trying to avoid violence to make him stop snoring.

My only real option at this point is to grab my headset and go lay down, turn on my Easy Relax app on my iPhone and see if that will occupy my brain for a while.  I always listen to the thunderstorm.  I always add thunder to the already soothing sound of the storm.  If it’s worth doing, it’s worth overdoing.

I’ve been depressed a lot lately and it’s wearing me down.  It’s like someone has a death grip on my ankles and is dragging me down into a pit of despair and I can’t break free.  And when I don’t feel the ache of depression, I’m utterly numb.  I don’t care about anything or anyone, least of all myself.  I feel like part of me is dead.  Part of me is withered and dead and turning to dust.  According to some personality report that I read about myself, I tend to spend too much time being introspective.  I look at myself under the ultimate microscope and find myself lacking in every aspect.  It’s why I had so many unfinished writing projects.  And now, I have nothing.  My writing is all gone.  Deleted.  Even my compulsion to write is dulled right now.  Which, to be honest, scares me a little.  I don’t have much to offer, but I always thought I had at least a little talent when it came to writing.  Right now, writing doesn’t even appeal to me.

This is all incoherent rambling, so I’ll stop.

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A Fat Chick with Hypoglycemia

Hypoglycemia is a tendency toward low blood sugar.  The cure is to eat.  Right now, my blood sugar is low, so there’s a good chance that this entry may not make much sense.  When my blood sugar “tanks” and I go low, it’s kind of like diving into a pool that’s been drained or hitting a wall at high speed: totally unfun.  I get the shakes, feel flushed, and then confusion sets in.  My arms feel heavy, as they do now.  Complete thoughts are difficult to form and fleeting.  I’m dizzy.  My hands are tingling.

I had a peanut butter sandwich and 4 glucose tablets a few minutes ago.  How long is this shit supposed to take to work?

It’s been a few minutes and now my blood sugar is up to 136.  I still don’t feel “right”.  I feel a little better and my brain fog is starting to clear.  But I still feel weak.  The part I hate most is the confusion.  Like going to my bedroom and not having a clue why I’m there.  It’s disconcerting, to say the least.

The aftermath of an “episode” is that I’m pretty much wrecked for a couple of hours.  I’m cold and feel like I’ve been run over by a steamroller.  It’s major league suckage at this point.

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Things I Hate

Here are some things I hate.  It’s not a complete list, but it’s a start.  You can be sure that from time to time when things piss me off I’ll point my finger at the offending group and say my peace.

Politics.  I fucking hate politics.  I think all politicians have sold their souls to Satan for a quarter and a Tic Tac, but that’s me.  I don’t want to talk politics unless I can be witty and clever in my statements.  If politicians actually did their fucking jobs instead of rallying around the latest trending topic on Twitter, maybe I’d have a little more respect for them.  But since they rarely do, I reserve the right to think they’re all self-serving assholes.  ‘Nough said, I think.

Stupid people.  While it should be pretty obvious why I hate stupid people, I’ll elaborate on it for the benefit of you, my readers.  Stupid people do stupid shit all the fucking time.  They don’t drive worth a shit and they’re incapable of counting back the correct change without a computer telling them how much to give me back.  They commit stupid acts ad nauseum and just can’t fucking help themselves.    Their mother should have swallowed, but she was stupid, too.  I’m not saying that intelligent people don’t have stupid moments.  We all do.  We’ve all had that “I should have done that differently” moments.  But the truly stupid ones who can’t even engage their brains for more than a millisecond just piss me right off.  Oh.  And if you meet all the criteria for being declared clinically insane (you know, you do the same fucking thing over and over expecting to get different results), I will lump you into my stupid category and talk shit about you behind your back.  Yes, I talk to my intelligent friends about you and they all laugh because you’re fucking stupid.  We giggle about your latest cycle of stupid shit that you think is so great and we think is downright retarded.  You make mentally challenged people look like fucking Einstein and I hate you because your IQ belies the fact that plankton has a leg up on your mental capacity.  Please remember: friends don’t let stupid friends breed.  You have my permission to cock block them at every turn.

Stereotypes.  I can only speak to one stereotype: fat people.  No, I don’t eat all the fucking time.  I like salads.  And no, I don’t need you to point out that I’m fat.  Believe me, I’m well aware of my weight.  And yes, I know who the fuck Jenny Craig is.  If you knew who that bitch was, you’d know that her food costs a shit ton of money and you’d understand why I’m not buying her fucking food.  Get off my fucking back about my weight.  I don’t give you shit about the fact that your self-esteem is so far down the toilet that you have to constantly give us fat chicks shit because it’s the only way you can feel better about yourself.  Shut the fuck up and go to a yoga class.  My losing 1-2 pounds a week is way better than you forcing your fingers down your throat to purge that Twinkie you ate in your closet last night.  And just because you’re a “reformed fat chick” (had gastric bypass/lap band) doesn’t mean you’re better than me.  It just means your insurance covered the surgery.  And if you’ve had surgery and talk shit about fat chicks, fuck you.  That surgery didn’t do anything but allow you to be a skinnier insecure asshole. What you need is a personality implant.

Anti-abortion activists.  I have always held that everyone is entitled to their opinion.  I’ve also always held that I cannot and will not make decisions for anyone else about their body.  I’m pro-choice.  Not because I believe abortion is a fantastic form of birth control.  It’s not.  I think we need to educate our children to the point that they make decisions about sex that are smart.  Abstinence is the best form of birth control, bar none.  I couldn’t ever have an abortion.  I was raised to believe it’s wrong.  And since I’m not exactly the most fertile field on the farm, I would never give up a chance at having a child.    What I’m unwilling to do is make decisions for anyone else.  Yes, I believe adoption is always a better choice, but I can’t make that call for another woman.  It’s their body, their relationship with God.  Who am I to throw my two cents in?  The activists who are willing to blow up clinics and kill doctors are not activists.  They’re murderers.  And they deserve to go to jail.  They’re not martyrs for the cause either.  They’re just another sick fuck who killed someone because they didn’t like what their victim was doing.  Leave the judging to God.  He trumps your puny little opinion.

Bad remakes.  Okay, there are certain things that should never be remade, re-recorded, or redone in any way, shape or form.  They’re either too good or too bad to do it over.  Led Zeppelin.  Pink Floyd.  A Clockwork Orange.  Let’s face it.  Led Zeppelin is so classic that it’s just sacrilegious to try to remake Kashmir or Stairway to Heaven or anything else they’ve done.  It’s wrong to sully Paige and Plant that way.  It’s time transcendent so just play the original for your kids and if they think they can do it better, slap them and tell them “no, you can’t.”  Pink Floyd?  Everyone does The Wall, but nothing sounds as good as the original.  Shut up.  No, it doesn’t sound the same when Korn does it.  Believe me, I know.  You cannot beat Malcolm McDowell at A Clockwork Orange.  There is no greater evil. It’s his absolute absence of remorse for his crimes that made him fantabulous in the role.  He was an all too believable sociopath.  What makes the movie so frightening is the fact that there are people walking on the planet who are capable of that type of violence without remorse.  God forbid anyone try to rework that script and modernize it.  It would be a travesty. I can deal with Rob Zombie’s version of Halloween, but I don’t think it’s as good as the original.  The original wasn’t as gory, but it had more suspense.  There’s something to be said for the original in anything.  It’s groundbreaking and new.  It’s not always great, but it’s different.  George Romero gave us cheesy zombies.  John Carpenter gave us The Shape aka Michael Myers.  Belushi and Aykroyd gave us Jake and Elwood.  And I prefer Gene Wilder to Johnny Depp as Willy Wonka.  Sometimes it is possible to improve upon the original, but certain things are sacred.

People who assume I’m a Cowboys fan.  Frankly, I don’t care about sports.  Get over it.  I’m a girl.

People who expect me to cover their asses but don’t consult with me beforehand.  C’mon.  This is basic shit.  If you want me to lie for you and cover your ass, you gotta tell me that’s what I’m doing.  If you don’t consult with me first, I’m not going to do you any fucking favors.  In fact…oh, shit…sorry the bus hit you.  Of course, that hearty pat on the back as it was approaching was probably a bad idea, huh?

People who assume that, since I didn’t finish college, I don’t understand psychology.  Ahh.  You should never underestimate my understanding of the human psyche.  Yes, I know lots about Freud and Jung.  I’ve been people watching for a long time.

For now, that’s it.  I’m sure I’ll add more as it comes to me.  It’s pessimistic of me to write like this, but sometimes the rage takes over and I have to let it out.

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A Thousand Pieces of My Heart

After 40 years of living my life, I figure I’ve lost a few pieces of my heart. Each member of my family has a chunk. My exes took their cuts. The guys I dated took their tiny tokens. My dearest friends have the pieces I entrusted to them.

On top of the missing pieces, there are deep scars and some wounds that haven’t healed yet, despite the time that has passed. Being molested when I was very young wounded me unbelievably deep, but the healing is slow and I’m okay with that. The negative pregnancy tests when I so desperately wanted a child are there, as well. Putting my son into a psychiatric hospital so they could get his meds sorted out is a wound that I doubt will ever heal completely. I drive by that hospital all the time and it’s a nagging reminder of having too much blind faith in doctors. Something I’ll never do again.

I hadn’t really thought about the condition of my heart until a few years ago. Not until I felt it break for the thousandth time. Hearts erode from tears cried in pain and agony. I should know. The jagged edges become slightly softer over time. It’s like a delapidated building, with windows busted out and graffiti all over the walls. But there, in the center, is a tiny ray of hope; a perfect bit of architectural splendor untouched by the ravages of time. No one has oblterated it yet. And I pray they never do.

I figure I’ve got about a thousand pieces left of my beat up old heart. Pieces that are mine alone. And I don’t mind the aches and pains of it as long as I know that the pieces I’ve given away over the years to the ones I’ve loved made them happier for a while.

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Blogging in Bed

My husband sooooo fucked up by telling me that there was an app on the iPhone that would allow me to blog from anywhere. But he likes the way I write so…thanks, honey.

I’m not quite sleepy but I’m worn out. And I’m in the mood to write. Strange combination but it works. Usually my comedic genius comes out more when I’m punch drunk. Now all I need is a topic.

I turned and asked the hubby. He says “dick size”. How strange for a man to bring it up. But alas, we work with what we are given.

My take on the size issue is this: I’m not a size queen. I’ve been down that road in my younger days and decided that there is such a thing as too big. It was a one time thing like backpacking through Europe after graduation. Seems like a good idea until you realIze that it’s a form of self torture when you stand at the foot of the alps.

If every thrust is followed by the woman saying “Please Jesus if you let me live through this night…” then it’s just not worth the physical trauma. Although I assume it will prepare you for natural childbirth. I myself am a c-section only kinda girl since I have a heart-shaped uterus.

I believe that as long as it reaches the designated target, it’s not to small. But men tend to see things differently. A lot of them seem to think that it takes a large endowment to please a woman. You really have to consider the intended destination of the penis before you take size into the “it’s an issue” realm.

For most women, I don’t think penis size is an issue anyway. Size is usually an issue with men. I mean look at men’s restrooms. So little privacy spawns all sorts of testosterone laden competition that comes naturally to men. They constantly compare themselves to the guy in the next urinal.

This is where men and women differ so wildly from each other. Men cop out and say that they prefer things that are visually pleasing. Okay, you know they mean big tits. But when they get you home and strip you of the Wonderbra they get pouty. Then they start going off about false advertising.

Women tend toward the emotional, according to men. But the truth of the matter is that we are more practical. We know that men who are insecure will try to be more skilled in bed. A guy who is overly endowed lacks a certain finesse because he tends to think that just showing up in bed is sufficient.

For me it’s like choosing a purse. I could carry the enormous hobo bag but it just isn’t practical. It gets unruly carrying all that excess around, especially in smaller boutique-like settings. My perfect bag is neither too big nor too small. It performs well and meets my needs, regardless of the occasion.

Now if only I could get Prada to make penises….

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Some insight into me….

I never really know what to write about myself in a profile or blog.  Part of me wants to tell my life story and part of me wants to keep all my details quiet and close.  The side that is intensely private uses wit and a clever turn of phrase to keep my readers at a distance.  It’s my need to survive.  I’ve had nasty rumors spread about me in the past that were so unbelievable if you knew me.  But for all the people that didn’t know me, the rumors were readily believed as fact and spread like wildfire.

The rumor was started my freshman year of high school by some of the most popular seniors in school.  They had power.  They had reputations.  I was a powerless, very sheltered freshman girl who had made the mistake of dating a guy who was vindictive.  The rumor was that I attended a party one night and had sex with multiple guys at the party.  Now, people who knew me were all too aware that my parents would NEVER let me go to a party with a bunch of seniors.   No one saw me at the party, but since my ex said I was there, I must have been.  Right?  Unfortunately, I’d pissed off some of his friends, so they backed him up in his lies.  I was labeled a slut. It was humiliating.  Girls were especially harsh, assuming at times that I was out to steal their boyfriends.  I wasn’t.  But it stuck with me all through high school.

By the time graduation rolled around, I’d managed to make some really good friends.  We were a small group.  And I was the wild one in the bunch.  I’m not saying I was an angel in high school.  I wasn’t.  But I wasn’t the hard core party girl I was labeled as either.  I have to say that my small group of friends made life fun and a lot easier for me.  I was never popular and I didn’t aspire to be.  After the agony of my freshman year, I was content to be in the back of the crowd.

Very few people know me well.  I’ve put up walls many times.  And I’ve had to patch those walls many times.  The people that have stuck by me are the ones I cherish most.  So to them, I send my love and admiration.  Thank you for loving me, despite my faults and foibles.  Thank you for accepting my brash, loud, crass personality for lo these many years.

To Tracey, who I’ve known for 28 years…thanks for tolerating me when no one else would.  I love you.

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