If You Can Read This...

To the man standing behind me in the checkout line at Ralphs, I wasn’t moving up to give you room to move up, I was trying to get away from you. If my ponytail is swinging in the wind of your breath, you are way too close. Please develop a sense of personal space, if not for yourself then for me. I’ve always thought of you and others of your ilk (because it is so super fun to use the word ilk), as evil, inconsiderate, serial killers, but it finally occurred to me that you just don’t get it. You have no idea that you’re making me (and others, lots of others, I can’t be the only one), crazy.

To the people who like to come up behind me in the bread aisle, please don’t hover. I glance back and you’re pretending to look at bread, but you are so abnormally close that I know something else is going on. There’s just no legitimate reason to peruse groceries over someone else’s shoulder. And you’re breathing all over me and my potential bread. And now my insides are screaming and my own breathing is a little off kilter, but at least I’m keeping it to myself, and part of me is sure you’re back there arranging your garrote, so of course, I can’t even focus enough to decide what kind of bread to get, which shouldn’t be that hard because I have three bucks, so I’m getting the bread that costs less than that. But I’m kind of panicking, so I leave without the bread and have to go back when you’re gone, or I grab the bread that I don’t want (the four dollar bread), and have to take it back when you’re gone.

To the guy who touched the seat of my bike when you were making room for yours, it was like being felt up by a stranger, and not in a good way, and yes, I know the difference. Not really, of course I don’t, that would be so slutty. Unless I was drunk.  Or on the subway. I wonder if you ever think of me.

To the person who once sat next to me in a movie theater during a matinee when there were like five people in the entire place, what the fuck were you thinking? Why would you even want to share an armrest with a complete stranger when there are thousands of unoccupied armrests for the taking? What sick joy do you take in struggling to maintain your fair share of armrest, while avoiding that other person’s arm, always aware that the two are a tiny shift away from shameful contact? And contact can’t happen. Because then there’s the waiting, arm touching arm, until someone can move away casually, because if anyone yanks their arm away, they might as well stand up and scream that the other person is repulsive, which is what I want to do, not because it’s true, but because I’m totally freaked out by random contact with strangers, especially when I’ve been obsessing about it through seven previews. On top of that, I’m holding in all my anguish because I’m worried it would be hurtful. There’s just no way to concentrate on a movie with all that going on. This is why I still don’t understand the Matrix. Never sit next to a stranger if there is some other option. Obviously. Because that happened like twenty years ago and I still think of you whenever I go to a matinee, so thanks for the trauma.

I get that this is me. (And lots of other nice people.) In my head I understand that we all have a right to be in the bread aisle at the same time, even though there’s really not room, and I was there first. And guy from Ralphs? Maybe someone was standing too close to you, and you were just trying to split the difference, so I forgive you. This time. See how rational? I get that other people can stand shoulder to shoulder, side by side, top to bottom, front to back, and now I’m thinking of a particularly uncomfortable family photo. Not mine. It’s in one of those books. It’s not that I don’t love my fellow humans. It’s not. IT’S NOT. I’d just prefer to love them from afar, with no touching. Unless I’m drunk.

Also, the family photo thing reminded me of the family at Disneyland who were all wearing the same shirt, the only similarity being that these behaviors are equally incomprehensible to me. Their shirt was bright yellow and had their last name printed on the back, at least I assume it was their last name, but you can’t really ask because it would be rude and uncomfortable, and if I was going to talk to a strange family at Disneyland wearing matching shirts it wouldn’t be to ask if that was their last name printed on the shirts, it would be to ask, “WTF is up with the matching shirts?” Is it a form of bonding, that you may love each other all the more? Is it in case you don’t recognize your family, like if someone gets amnesia in the middle of the park? If that’s the case I don’t think a lot of people would have the presence of mind to check the back of their shirt for a last name, and I’m including myself. Is it to label themselves as a group to the rest of us, so no one bitches when the stragglers come blundering through the 45 minute line to catch up with the others? Actually, that one makes sense, so I’m quitting here. I didn’t mean to go on so much about the ugly family shirts. Oh yeah, they were spectacularly ugly. Not one of them is going to look good in the vacation pictures. But in their defense, not one of them stood inappropriately close to me.

My Inner Child is an Idiot

Recently, there was a big hullabaloo that mostly existed in my head. No, that’s not true. It started in my head, but then it took over my entire day. It started with a text from someone named Jenny.

My first thought was, hmmm, I don’t know a Jenny. And that was that. If only that had remained that. A few hours later, while I was reading comments on another blog, a blog I much admire, it hit me. It had to be her. I had received an invitation from an amazing writer to meet on Skype to talk a bit. Perhaps the missing apostrophe should have been a clue, but when you go from dismissal to euphoria in .3 seconds you tend to overlook the details.

I’ve recently started blogging myself, and I’ve been following her, because I have a lot to learn, also she’s funny, socially conscious, and other good crap. I’ve been reading her posts religiously and I’ve left some comments that may or may not have been witty, and in that instant, it became clear that she was so overcome by my budding efforts that she couldn’t waste a moment in reaching out to me, to discuss my soon to skyrocket writing career. Of course a second later I was equally convinced that this was ridiculous, it was all in my head and it couldn’t possibly be her. That’s the feeling I should have gone with.

But no, I thought. She liked some comment I made. Or else she wants to berate me for writing mean things about my cat. I know she likes cats because she writes about hers sometimes. Only she writes nice things about hers, because apparently they never pee on her stuff; or on her person. So I’ll have to make her understand that although I say mean things about my cat, I never do mean things to my cat, even though she has peed on my head while I slept. Twice. Two times. Yep. And still I feed her. Because I’m stupid.

So, I’m shaking, and I’m running around, and I get my sister on the phone because I just cannot do anything, I can’t even Skype because I don’t have Skype, so there’s the whole business of downloading that to deal with (which was really an effort, and in the process I allowed the download of like twenty random programs or whatever they’re called) so I had to have help. In defense of my stability, the first thing I said to my sister was, “I’m probably imagining this. It couldn’t be real.” But I didn’t feel like I was imagining it. I felt pee-my-pants-happy. Which I did not actually do. So maybe technically I wasn’t. Can you be pee-your-pants-happy if you don’t pee your pants? Yes. If you don’t have to pee.

While I was failing miserably to download Skype, I reverse 411’d the number the text came from, and it was indeed a Texas number which was evidence. The text was sent by Jenny from Texas. There can’t be more than one. I’m not a crazy person at all.

So finally Skype is working. I’ve created a profile, entered Jenny’s contact info, and fumbled with the keyboard until finally, the person who has asked so kindly to speak with me is revealed. But it’s not her. So now I’m crushed and bursting with humiliation, because I’ve dragged my sister into this which makes her a witness. But wait! Maybe the picture was taken when she was a teenager, or on Halloween, or on a day when she just really wanted to show off her boobs. But no. Still not her.

My poor sister is still on the phone, and I imagine her writhing with empathetic embarrassment, because really, how much of a fucking moron can a person be? I’m instantly and severely depressed. I manage to get off the phone so I can cry, and have some xanax and a beer, because somehow I’m out of liquor. It’s a bad day to be out of liquor, but my shame won’t allow me to venture out to the store where I sense the whole world is waiting to mock me for my hope and stupidity. Clearly, I should go to bed before I do anything else humiliating and anyway, it’s almost 3:30 in the afternoon and I can’t take anymore.

I realize that the whole thing is ludicrous. I will never be a writer. No one whose work I admire is ever going to admire mine back. Everyone who has ever complimented my writing either lacks taste or lies, either out of pity or pathology. I will never accomplish anything that I want to accomplish. And all I’m really doing by blogging is rendering myself unemployable.

I finish my beer, the one I cracked open while I was frantically trying to install Skype. I start uninstalling all the useless programs that I had inadvertently piggyback downloaded in my earlier fucking flurry of emotion. I was feeling good about figuring out how to uninstall all this crap by myself, because technology is evil, but that day it was my bitch. Until I accidentally uninstalled something I needed. Now everything on my screen is too big and the stuff on the edges isn’t there; it looks like it would if you pressed your nose directly against a book and tried to read it. FYI, you need your graphics drive.

Of course, I had another beer. I kept going back and forth between wanting to sink forever into misery and feeling a little ok, maybe even slightly amused. My sister posted a cute thing on Facebook about how 90% of kids get all their awesomeness from their aunt. That’s me. And my friend texted to make plans for us to spend the next leap year at Disneyworld. So my day clawed its way a little further out of the toilet.

So much so that I was able to consider the idea that it wasn’t so stupid. I mean, it was really stupid, incredibly stupid, almost brilliantly stupid, but maybe that’s good. Because maybe, even though it didn’t work out this time, it will eventually. Even though it isn’t true right this second, now I know that I believe it could be true someday, even someday soon. And that’s heartening, because as much as I hear that one must believe great things are possible, I am not naturally an optimist. And as stupid as it was, I believed.

And believing? Being that idiotically hopeful? That’s kid shit. It’s awesome. Like when you were little and you just knew you were going to grow up to be an astronaut/rock star/firefighter/veterinarian, before you got to the point where you started ruling things out. Can’t be an astronaut if you get sick on the teacups at Disneyland. Can’t be a vet if the sight of an animal bleeding makes you want to cry. Can’t be a rockstar if you’re tone deaf. Yeah, there’s some wiggle room there. And I could still be a firefighter. As far as I know.

But for those twenty minutes, I was not ruling anything out. In spite of the lingering embarrassment, it was a really good twenty minutes. So good for me. Kind of. In an unfulfilled, humiliating way.

P.S. To Jenny who sends enticing Skype related texts with no regard for the consequences: I’m not that happy with you. Lose my number. 

P.P.S. To Jenny the hilarious and socially conscious Bloggess: I’m not dangerous. I just get excited sometimes.

Grab-Ass With the Homies or How Mom-Speak Ruins Everything

    Sometimes (read usually) when we are hanging out and there is alcohol involved (read usually) my sister and I regress to the age of seven. We stick our tongues out at each other, throw food, and run around like maniacs smacking each other on the ass. There are also tickle fights and sometimes wet willies.

                My nephew is our minion. Each of us tempts him to harass the other. Of course since he’s three he’s always more on his mother’s side, but just you wait Henry Higgins until he turns into a teenager. You’ll be sorry. Of course by then I’m sure he’d rather be flayed than tickle his mother, but whatever.

                Our mother, when she’s there, is usually the odd one out, not because we purposely exclude her, but because she doesn’t know how to play. Also, the grown up is strong in that one, so she’s always somewhat appalled by the antics which is not the way to be. And she’s sober, which is really not the way to be. But mostly it’s because she doesn’t know how to play.

                At our second Christmas this year (because not everybody we love can be in the same house at the same time because that would be Against Christmas) my sister and I were drinking and smacking asses and having as jolly a time as you can have smacking asses outside of a locker room without it being weird, when our mother said, “You never let me play with your bottoms. I want to play with your bottoms.”

                Awkwardness immediately ensued, and of course we stopped because it was ruined.

                Words matter. They can hurt. And more importantly they can cause uncomfortable mental images of your mother playing with your bottom. Which I guess is its own special kind of hurt. For the proverbial record, I know she didn’t mean it in the horrifying-bad-touch-creepy way it came out. She just wanted to join in the madcap moment. But it’s like a guy who you wanted to kiss you asking if he can. It kind of destroys the moment. Even if he doesn’t actually say he wants to play with your bottom. Although of course he does.

                The moral of the story (as if you needed one) is if you see an ass that needs smacking just do it. No discussion needed. 

Delusions of Me

(Excuse the drawings. I'm trying something. My sister dared me. The drinking makes it seem like a good idea. I did all these with only two pens.) 

I often think about getting mugged. Usually, when I’m walking to my car at night. I’m not worried about it. I’m anticipating it. Because I’m ready. I’ve been ready since I took that self defense course in college. I am so prepared to stab a mugger in the eye with my car key. People who have keyless entry, I don’t know what you’re going to use to stab your mugger in the eye. You should give that some thought.

         

I’m sure if it actually happened it would be kind of a bummer, scary and all that, not to mention all the blood and eye goo on my keys, but I’m such a badass as this plays out in my mind that I can’t resist. I wonder if this posting will entice a mugger out of the darkness to accost me, after all, he could actually use the “she was asking for it,” defense, if muggers read, but I don’t believe they do.  And if they do, they’d probably choose someone who’s not prepared to stab them in the eye.

Although, I recently read that the key thing actually a bad idea because you have to let the mugger get close to you in order to reach their eyes. You’re supposed to hit your mugger with something bigger, like an umbrella. But I live in the desert, so 355 days of the year an umbrella is just a pain in the ass. Besides, once you get your heart set on stabbing an assailant in the eye with your keys it’s hard to let that go.

On an even more morbid note, I want to find a dead body. Not that I want anybody to be dead, but since sometimes people have to be dead anyway, why can’t I find one of them? Because according to a lot of my reading, finding a dead body leads to hijinks and adventure. Obviously, I’m assuming murder. Yes, I’d be opening myself up to suspect status, but obviously I would suss out the real killer and all would be well. Unless there were maggots. I guess I only want to find the fresh bodies.

And why does no one have a heart attack when I’m around? I know CPR. I could be all decisive and heroic, and the victim would regain consciousness and thank me and the onlookers would applaud and later I would be adorably modest on the evening news. But I’m going to need the victim to be hygienic and have recently brushed and flossed because these days, I’m not comfortable putting my mouth just anywhere. Although I suppose I would have the option of only doing the chest compressions. But that doesn’t match the visual in my head, which would be disappointing.

I imagine what I would do if there was a fire, which is kind of weird because this is one of my biggest fears, and also, I feel the worst about this one, because my pets would be traumatized. (So no cartoon on this one because that would make it worse.) I’m sure that to most of you it seems worse that I’ve let people be mentally murdered, suffer imaginary heart attacks, and get stabbed in the eye with my keys but I don’t know them, and anyway they brought those things on themselves with their lives of crime and unhealthy eating habits. With the possible exception of the guy who got murdered. I’m not sure what happened with him. Yet.

Anyway, in the fire I heroically round up and whisk to safety my five pets three of whom are dogs and two of whom are cats, unless you’re my apartment manager in which case two of them are fish. In my imaginings four of the rescues go pretty easily but then I have to go back for Agatha whom I couldn’t get on the first trip because she was hiding under the bed. However at the last possible moment I snatch her from the flames and we live happily ever after. Of course, now we have no stuff, but I know someone who had a fire, no pets, only children, and they’re fine, don’t worry. My point is, that if you get on the news because all your shit burned up, everyone sends you free shit. The people I know got so much free shit that they had to give a bunch of it to charity. And they didn’t even have heroic pet rescues to modestly recount during their exclusive interviews. So I could be a hero and give to charity too which is good for everybody.

            This all probably means that there is something deeply wrong with me, but I hope, in the nicest possible way, that there are others out there with the same horrible self-aggrandizing affliction. Because I’d like to think that these tendencies to play out mental disasters are part of some simple human longing rather than a psychotic indicator. I mean really, who doesn’t long for the occasional parade in their honor? 

I Don't Want Anyone to Die Because of This

I almost just killed a bunch of people because I’m tired and I don’t feel like getting up in the morning. In my defense I also have cramps, but that’s no justification. However, it would totally have been an accident.

I spend Thursdays with my nephew which is generally awesome. But in spite of the awesome, sometimes when Thursday rolls around, I’m fucking tired. I know I should seize the day, and treasure every moment, because soon he’s going to be older and way too cool to hang out with his aunt, unless it’s his other aunt who’s only like seven years older than he is, but definitely not the aunt who’s like twenty years older than he is, ok thirty years older, ok anyone who is doing math in their head right now, just stop it. (Hi Z! Love you, love our days together, don’t take this personally, fuck it you can’t read yet, so you probably won’t ever read this, unless someday when I’m dead, you want to know a little more about me because you didn’t know me very well, since you spent all your time hanging out with your young, fun aunt.) I mean, they’ll probably be going to the same parties or something.

 I know. It’s admirable that I’m secure enough to admit that I feel threatened by a twelve year old girl. It’s just that I feel a little possessive sometimes. Even though I know I don’t have first claim and I’m totally fine with that. Obviously, the people who chipped in the raw materials get first dibs, that’s just how it works. Plus there’s the whole issue of me being tired on my one day a week, so if I had all the days, every day of every week… just… wow...

Anyway, I think we’ve mined that tangent, which brings us to where I kill people with my mind. Unfortunately, it’s not in an amazing River Tam kind of way. So the night before Zander day (yes that’s what I call it, he obviously calls it “Anne day”), I was tired and I was wishing I didn’t have to get up the next morning, then I thought, what if my wish comes true in some sort of drastic, horrible, monkey’s paw fashion. What if in like half an hour, I find out that everyone was killed on the freeway on the way home from Disneyland, and by the way, the other aunt was with them at Disneyland so it would really be a two birds monkey’s paw, so now four people are dead because I wished it, because that’s the only way I wouldn’t have to get up in the morning. Except it’s not the only way, and I don’t know why the monkey’s paw can’t see that, and of course, I didn’t actually wish all the deaths. Not any of the deaths. The imaginary deaths.

 I mean my sister could have gotten a sore throat or something and stayed home from work, not that I’m wishing a sore throat on my sister, that would also be horrible, although obviously not as horrible as the freeway thing. Except, I wonder if the sore throat would be worse on some level if I had actively wished it on her. Probably not, because it’s hard to top death. Plus she’d opt for the sore throat. Definitely. Although to clarify, I do not wish her or anyone else a sore throat. Or death.

That’s not true. I might wish sore throats on some people. 

No Christmas For You!

I just found out that Christmas is cancelled. Not worldwide or you would have already heard about it. Not even the whole day, just dinner. Christmas dinner at my grandparents’ house is cancelled. Now we always knew that at some point the holiday dinners at the grandparents’ would come to an end because my grandparents are ninety, and Nana has been threatening to die for the last fifteen years.

But as of this posting, everyone is fine, yet dinner is still cancelled. Of course there was the heart attack incident at Thanksgiving, but I’m pretty sure the three year old is to blame for that, and anyway, what are the chances it will happen again?

The word is that my uncle is tired of cooking every holiday, although the only reason he cooks every holiday is because we thought he liked it. It’s not like we locked him in the kitchen and threw crackers and clam dip at his head if he tried to come out, although if I was going to fling dip at anyone it would probably be the clam. But I can understand, because I don’t enjoy cooking either, there’s so much preparation and work and you have nothing to show for it by the end of the evening. Maddening.   

Nana says she wants to go to a special Latin mass, which ok, I’m not a big church-goer (in fact I don’t even remember when I was last dragged screaming into one) but I like Latin, it’s my favorite language that isn’t English, so I get it. But we could have dinner after church.   

Then there was the “too old” argument. You’re never too old for Christmas. It’s a bullshit reason. And a sad reason. Plus, I don’t like change. I hear nobody likes change, but I feel like I don’t like it more than most. It’s documented. There was further nonsense about it being time to start our own traditions. Well, we already have a tradition and that tradition is going to her house. (I refer mainly to Nana here, because although there are two grandparents, she is the force.) The time to start a Nana-less tradition is when there’s no more Nana. Which we hope won’t be for a very long time. And it will be far more picturesque if when our new tradition starts we are lamenting Nana’s recent passing rather than lamenting the fact that she doesn’t want us around. We love you, Nana.

If it’s really cancelled, then we’ll eat dinner at my sister’s, which was always the back-up plan. Well, technically the someday plan for when the grandparents have gone into that good night. Gently I’m sure, because let’s face it, someone who’s been announcing their impending death for the last decade or two is probably not the rage, rage type. I know, and I do not approve, but what are you going to do? It’s not my fault that I’m insensitive about this. I’m not generally so que sera sera about death, but like I said, we’ve been hearing about it for a really long time and she’s worn me down. So I hope you’re happy Nana, the world is now judging me for being callus, and it’s your fault. It’s ok, she’ll never read this, and I’m positive she would laugh if she did.

Although, if Christmas is cancelled because I blogged about Thanksgiving then maybe she wouldn’t. I know that’s a tad self-aggrandizing, but that’s straight where my guilty mind went when I heard. I figured it was either the blog or our drunken revelry, but we get drunk every holiday, and the blogging is new. But the blogs were very endearing, and I didn’t use names, so come on family. But I don’t have to blog. I will swear off the Christmas day blog for you Nana. Tweets only, I swear. And I’m sure we can tone down the revelry and drunkenness. I’m sure we’re all ok with that. And by “we,” I mean all those that participate in the revelry, not the royal we that I sometimes fall into when in the throes of mental discourse.

I just wasn’t ready for a change this year. But it will be wonderful I’m sure. My sister is also an amazing cook, so the quality of the food won’t suffer, and on the bright side, no one at her house will complain when I have to put my Tofurkey (leave it alone spell-check) in the toaster oven. It’s possible I’ll be allowed to use a real oven, but I won’t get my hopes up. 

...And I Feel Fine

So this is it. Or not. Probably not. Our last year, month, fortnight, whatever. I’m not sure of the final date because I haven’t been paying attention, due to not caring, the not caring being closely linked to not believing. But what if? If these are my (and everyone else’s) last days I’m doing a lot of stuff I shouldn’t be bothering with, and not enough good stuff. I just paid a bill. And rent. See what I mean? Totally pathetic. This is not how I should be bringing in the end. Of course, if January does roll around the pets will still expect to have a place to live.

I can’t give up the responsibilities just yet, but I can add more laugh-in-the-face-of-Armageddon fun. Sex comes to mind, that whole passion in the face of death thing, but eh, I’m thinking more along the lines of something I haven’t done before (goodbye white wedding) like maybe skydiving. Of course the point is to make my brief remaining time spectacular, not to hasten the end, so maybe not skydiving. I’d like to dance with the devil in the pale moonlight, but mainly so I could say that I had if anyone ever asked, which no one will be around to do. That leaves killing a man just to watch him die. And if you’re thinking I got to that too quickly, let me tell you that I got to it first, and then added the other options so I wouldn’t seem like a psycho.

Besides, it wouldn’t be that mean. It sounds mean of course, “Kill a man just to watch him die.” That’s horrible. But maybe it’s only mean if he has a long life ahead of him. It might not be so bad if I did it on the 31^st right before the ball drops. I would like to have it wrapped up before the New Year’s Eve countdown so I could enjoy some champagne. It would probably be smart to start on the champagne a little early just in case, and I would recommend that for your New Year’s kisses as well. A little early, just a small cheat. So if I wait until the last possible moment, he’d only be losing what? Twenty seconds? And obviously it would be someone who completely deserves to lose twenty seconds. Some complete jerk, like maybe the guy from Ralphs. No, I’m sorry guy from Ralphs, I forgave you. I forgot.

                Instead of murder, I could do something heroically self sacrificing like give all my stuff to charity and donate my organs to a needy stranger. Hopefully the stranger that I choose needs a kidney, because I just went to all the trouble of removing it, and I don’t think it’s all that easy to do yourself. But then if the world doesn’t end, I’m stuck moving in with my mother, and I can’t even drink or read because I gave away my liver and my books. I need a scenario in which no one has to die or live with their mother.

I’m going to have a drink and try to come up with one. 

For "Ease" Read, "Holy Shit this is Hard!"

Nobody died. And it was amazing. And no one made fun of anyone else. Except me. I made fun of one girl. But I didn’t make fun of her because of any sort of physical ineptness, because that would be mean. I only made fun of her insistence on whining during such a spectacularly fun occasion. It was discrete mockery too; for the ears of my sister only.

In spite of the ominous lawyerese on the release form it was abundantly safe and so much fucking fun that you need to go do it. Right now. Call in to work, whatever it takes.

            Fair warning, the back of your legs will look like this:

And this can happen to your pants:  

             And it’s a lot harder than it looks. For me. There is something horribly wrong with my body that prevents me from getting my legs over the damn bar in the normal way, so I had to learn an alternate way. Which they say is harder. I didn’t know if that was true or if they just say that to make people feel better about being sent to remedial trapeze school. But I proved to my satisfaction that it is in fact more difficult, by immediately getting my leg tangled in both the trapeze and the safety line, which no one else was able to do. Hence the pants. Anyway, I finally managed it.

             However it’s hard to catch up to the others when you get sent back. To remedial trapeze school. Like I did. So by the end of the session, I was losing my mind. Half the people had crapped out, and the other half had managed to perfect their timing, and were being instructed on how to do the catch. I was pretty much left to go again and again.

             In my crazed determination to perfect my timing, I was forgetting all the safety rules and had to be reminded once by a fellow student and once by an instructor to hook up my safety lines. The instructor actually made me climb down the ladder and take a moment to breathe and calm myself, so I was probably pretty much a wreck by then.

             I didn’t get to do the catch because I totally fucked up my last turn, and I had been warned there was some concern that I might crash into the catcher and injure us both. I was so hyped up that I was totally prepared to take a head injury, but they are a bit overprotective of their staff. So fine.

Here is what I did on my final turn:

And here is my sister doing it properly:

                                           

             So it was awesome. And the people who were good were very sweet and encouraging to those who weren’t. By the end that was just me, because everybody else had quit. So I got to be the plucky girl who didn’t give up, even though she sucked. Which is not what I was planning; but it wasn’t so bad.