The Big Two-Oh

It's been exactly three months since I last posted here. It is strangely fitting that I start again on my birthday (although tbh the only reason I'm here is because I felt that the whole birthday thing deserves a post.)

Twen-teen?

A follower of mine, instead of telling me happy birthday, tweeted: "...you all adult an [sic] shit. Congratulations! You made it..."

I'd thought I became an adult at 18, with all the forms to be signed and the alcohol to be freely consumed, but I'm just now realizing it gets worse. It gets much worse.

I'd just like to say that I suck at celebrations. I also suck marginally less at birthdays. Last year all I did was get my ears pierced and spend a couple hours with the Village Taker. This year, the plan is to get my septum pierced, insult VT a little bit and go house-hunting after with Excelsior (remember him, guys? By some miracle, he's not tired of me yet so we're still friends). Maybe we'll buy alcohol and toast the fact that we are both inching ever closer to death. I dunno.

There's been improvement on my part though because I'm actually not going to spend the day in a "well-simmered stew of self-pity" (Norman, 2017.) Ya girl's gonna go out and people again. 

I'm not sure how I feel about being 20 now. Currently I'm a little terrified cuz I'm a full-fledged adult now, no longer a teenager, which was part of my identity for all of seven years. But I have 364 (I think; I just pulled a number out of my ass) days to get used to being 20. So I won't sweat it.

Old Jokes, Sentimentality and Name-Calling

Old jokes. Yes. Made by my mother and grandmother (who are 38 and 74 respectively). My mother has been calling me " mi old & barky gyal" for almost a month now. My grandma called me this morning laughing her ass off at her "old granddaughter" and how I soon get arthritis and shrivel up like her...

Hello? Lmao. No. I doubt I'll live long enough to shrivel. But that's a thing for another time. No negativity.

My closest girl friend (I'm calling her MoBae because I'm corny like that and she really is bae) got the ball rolling on the sentimentality.

No lie, I actually teared up a little. I've never met her mum and she's saying she's supposed to keep me. My heartttttttt.

And this from the Taker of Villages, Memelord Extraordinaire and Supreme Pussyole himself, which means all the more because he rarely ever says this:

Miss mandevillegirl she bout "happy birthday germsyyyyy" and camouflaging it with heart BIH I SEE YOU (but thanks, you succubus you)

A broom (don't ask, please) expressing his undying love for me by proclaiming me a "bloodclaat wicked gyal" - I'm not a "bloodclaat" anything. I'm just a regular wicked gyal, thank you very much.

It means a lot to me, y'know. Honestly. Like I'm actually visible. Thanks, guys. I mean it.

Conclusion? This is going on too long now

So. Yes. I'm a fully grown (at the great height of five feet and an inch) adult now. Ha.

Twenty years isn't much of a long time in the grander scheme of things, in my view, but here's to me getting to that milestone. And here's to me getting to more.

A Monday...

...wherein I got up early enough to put on gold eyeliner, mascara and my favorite bright red lipstick, and to actually sorta kinda fix my hair

...wherein I'm wearing my new favorite pair of earrings (costume jewelry, and the stone fell out of one but I love it still, I who thought I'd never wear a pair of hoop earrings in my life)

...wherein I smiled for a picture I sent to my mum and captioned it "well I actually look like someone's daughter for a change"

...wherein I felt the first stirrings of confidence, even though I haven't done the shave in a couple of weeks, and I don't have the smallest of waists anymore

...wherein I got the first inkling of what self-love is like, and I fell in love with it.

Physically starving, as I haven't eaten yet. But this poem is filling my mind.

I signed up for a daily poem to come to my email.

Today, I received this.

I'm not gonna comment on it.

Food for thought, for us all.

A post that is not a post, per se. I just wanted to share. (I've decided I need to share more, if even to readers whom I've convinced myself exist.)

I've been home since August 5.

Home truly is a balm for me (minus, of course, the fact that I'm persona non grata whenever my mum isn't here), because time literally slows down, and I can breathe, in a way that I can't in Kingston.

It is August 26, and if we're going by day and not date, today marks a year since my uncle passed away.

I watered his grave last year with (what I thought was) every tear in my body. I wondered how the hell I was supposed to resume my regular life without one of its pillars (who, incidentally, I was to have seen the day after he died).

I spent the rest of 2016 on a knife's edge, wondering if the universe could have possibly flung a bigger, steamier, nastier handful of shit into my face. (Pro tip: the answer is yes. The answer is always yes.)

But the months passed. Some of them crawled. Some raced by like the devil was giving chase. The months passed, and eventually the pain faded. It hasn't disappeared completely, and it possibly never will, because he was my favorite uncle and...he just...you know.

Now a year has passed, and Digicel has given his number to someone else, and I haven't heard his voice, or seen him, or anything. I still have yet to visit his grave, because I still remember the face I saw in that casket and it wasn't the him I knew in life. I have to tell myself that the him I knew is somewhere I cannot yet follow. He is beyond my reach, but he is all right, wherever he is.

I'm telling myself that, in the hopes that one day I'll believe it.

I go back to Kingston on September 3. I'm not looking forward to it.

It seems that my demons are strongest there, where I have no shoulder to lean on, and I can't randomly go hug my mother when I need it.

But, you know, school is a necessary evil.

I've been contemplating finding a therapist somewhere there, but I dunno what my final decision will be yet.

In the eternity that I've been here, I haven't cried once, haven't experienced the urge to self-harm. In fact, I've been attempting to self-care, eating better (and more, lmao), listening to more music, reading more. (Actually, I'm almost positive that I've damaged my eyes even more with all the reading I've been doing.)

This greatly abridged summer holiday is just what the doctor would've ordered.

Reopened Wounds and Changing Bandages

I reopened the wound. Scraped off the scab.

Now I have to sanitize it - because I don't want sepsis, see - and cover it with a newer, thicker bandage.

I think, in order for it to really heal, I need to stop worrying at it. I should just cover it with a nice, pristine white bandage, and forget about it.

But that, ladies and gentlemen, is much easier said than done.

Chance the Rapper said in his song "All We Got" (ft Kanye West) that at the end of the day, music is all we got, and he was right.

At the end of the day, when I can't sleep and I'm lying on my back staring at the ceiling, and trying not to cry, and failing miserably; or I'm lying on my stomach staring outside, again trying not to cry, again failing miserably; or I can't take the weight of the silence anymore and decide to ignore my shitty vision and go outside and sit under a streetlight because that's the only way I can convince myself that maybe I'm not all alone in this bleak black world

At the end of the day, when my people cup is empty (although to be honest there's rarely anything in there at any point) and I go to a corner and wish I could perform a Disillusionment Charm on myself (yes, I love Harry Potter, thanks) and blend into my surroundings so no one will see me sitting by myself and feel sorry for me because oh, she looks so lonely, because I actually really really am but you don't need to know that because I'm already sorry enough for myself as it is, thanks

At the end of the day, when my best friend has most likely gone to bed and I forget to be annoyed at the other best friend for still not letting me know that he's back in Jamaica, when I lie to my mother and tell her that yes, I'm okay, because she has enough to worry about without adding to the list her child's constant depression and anxiety and an ever-strengthening urge to just topple my king and tell God, or whoever the fuck I'm playing against, that You fucking win because I'm just too damned tired to play anymore

At the end of the day, when I've bathed away the dirt of the day, scrubbing my skin until it's a raw red, when I've washed away the evidence of my tears and ignored the sting of the cuts on my forearms or legs

At the end of the day, music is all I've got.

--

I'd like to thank everyone who has recommended to me an album or an artist. But most specifically mandevillegirl because she always comes through. ALWAYS.

Thank you all -- but especially you, mandevillegirl -- for the love songs, the sad songs, the happy songs, and all the others.

A reflection on the difference ten years can make, and what ten more years can do. (Not the best title I could come up with, but then my titles are rarely good anyway.)

i.

I was nine, and already excited about turning ten. It was June, and I would not be ten for another four months, but I woke up every morning and glanced at my calendar to see how much closer it was to November, how much closer I was to being ten.

I still thought I was beautiful. I was happy in my skin -- except for the times he lined that skin with licks that left marks I had to explain away. I had a lot of friends, I was at the top of my class, and my family was still whole and functional.

I was still an only child, but I'd learned to ignore those little twinges of longing I used to feel when I saw my friends with their little siblings, because my parents "can't afford another child right now". And he told me I wouldn't dare bring a dog or a cat into his house.

I was nine, and my world was still hued in shades of red, green, blue, and yellow, with barely any black therein. My smiles were wide and genuine, and people used me as an example for their children to emulate. I was quick to hug, and I had so much love inside you to give, so much joy.

ii.

I sit here, ten years in what promised to be a bright future, ashamed of what I've grown up to be. I curse the time for moving so damn fast. It is June, and I will not be twenty for another four months, but I wake up every morning and curse my calendar for seeming to flip its pages so fast. In the blink of an eye, I will be twenty, and now that I'm so close to it, I wish time would just stop for a fucking second and wait for the rest of us to catch up.

There is rarely ever a day when I look into the mirror for another reason than to fix my eyebrows or put in my earrings (all in an effort to meet society's standards of beauty, which doesn't always work anyway); I can't meet my own eyes in the mirror because I do not like what I see. I wear all my flaws on my skin, and I hate myself for it.

Those licks have left their mark on me -- some physical, but most not -- and he hasn't been my daddy ever since I hit thirteen and he realized I was beginning to move away from his sphere of control and discover that boys weren't necessarily just playmates. He hasn't been my daddy since the nights when I was fourteen (or probably fifteen, I have taught myself to not remember) and he used to come in my room after my mother went to bed and showed me what I was "looking for". 

My nineteen year old world has been leached of its color, is now ten thousand shades of grey. Ten thousand blurry shades, because I've damaged my vision permanently by trying to lose myself in fictional worlds, and those days when I used to stare up at the sun and wonder if I could someday fly that high.

I have a little sister whom I love endlessly in a way I didn't know I could love -- who, incidentally, will be four tomorrow -- who I need to set some kind of positive example for, and I doubt sincerely that I'll be able to tell her about some of the things I've done so she could emulate them.

My family hasn't been the same since I was compared to Achan, a blight on the household, since I was told that I was a whore and that nothing good would come from me. It hasn't been the same.

So much has changed in ten years. I wear all my flaws on my skin, I look nothing like I wish I did (except maybe the skin tone), and I'm nine times out of ten a silent mess because I've learned the lesson that when you trust people it can come back and bite you in the ass. Learned that lesson a little too well.

I may not have had my heart broken the way my peers have, but I've been hurt by men because I refused to learn from prior experiences and let myself cry over them and punish myself because I didn't see myself as deserving of anything better.

I have hit rock bottom more times than I can count. I've been sitting at the edge of the abyss, conversing with it, weighing the pros and cons of allowing it to seduce me into its depths.

iii.

Ten years from now, it will be June, and I will be four months from turning thirty (!!!), and I will look back at my early years, filled with innocent joy and wonder, and my angsty, depression and anxiety-filled teenage years.

Maybe I'll finally have my shit together and be someone I can be proud of.

That's the thing about the future, you know. It's not set in stone. It's like a tree diagram (the math major I am appreciates this analogy), dependent on the decisions we make. It is fluid, ever-changing.

That's what I like about the future. It can change.

Maybe, ten years down the line, I'll decide that yes, I am devoutly heterosexual, I am devoutly theist, and be that way for the rest of my life. Maybe it will be that I'm not actually hetero (and I find that I'm not as cut up as I was when I first began to question), and I will still refuse to believe in anything more than the necessity of a deity, not its actual existence -- see past post re that.

The other thing I like about the future is that I'm the one who makes it. Not my family, not my friends. Me.

I've been listening to a song called Eyes to the Sky by Jon Bellion (shoutout to mandevillegirl for putting me on to his music) for months, and the chorus and hook never fail to resonate with me every time:

I'm tryna live, I'm tryna rise

Above the shit the devil tries

Which is why I keep my eyes to the sky

Insert something really dope right here

I'm s'posed to write a hook, but all I wanna say is

I just wanna be happy

I wanna be happy, yeah

I'm supposed to write a fucking hook right here

Money and bitches, blah blah, yeah yeah

I just wanna be happy

I wanna be happy, yea

In ten years, maybe I, the comprehensively curious little girl who never stops asking questions, will finally have answers for all my difficult questions.

All we wanna know is where the stars came from

But do we ever stop, ever stop to watch them shine?

...Or are we staring with, staring with ungrateful eyes?

Ungrateful Eyes, Jon Bellion

The title of the mixtape (or album, I forget which it is) is called The Separation. Feel free to give it a listen on SoundCloud.

--

Honestly, I started this post the way I always do, a little melancholy, somewhat angry. But as I continued to write, I felt that drain out of me and now I am as close to happy as I've ever been.

This, this is why I started blogging again.

i'm too lazy to write a proper title, but

i know what i want to talk about.

i'm also too lazy to capitalize the first letter of every sentence, or the first letter of any proper nouns...which may make this post harder to read. i'm sorry.

but i am tired.

tired, i say, of being objectified.

check out this thread i made on april 5 about an experience i had.

as someone who already has a negative self-image and is uncomfortable with any form of attention, objectification is a special sort of hell for me.

i long for a jamaica, a caribbean, a world, where women can walk in peace and tranquility on the road.

and i'm fucking TIRED of seeing women making threads on twitter on how they've been harassed, how they've been reduced to nothing more than their breasts, legs, derriere, and genitalia, with just a sentence.

and to all the men (and unfortunately, women) whose favorite argument is "well if you wore proper clothes on the road he wouldn't have called to you", i say: a heartfelt fuck you.

women are harassed, and raped, whether they are wearing hijabs or bikinis. so don't tell me that shit about "she was asking for it because of her attire"

NO ONE EVER ASKS TO BE OBJECTIFIED. EVER.

break free of your patriarchal thought processes that seek to debase women. we are people too. we should be free to wear whatever the fuck we want to, as long as we are comfortable.

don't fucking tell me that i, as an adult cis female (i can't say het, because i'm not sure anymore), cannot or should not, wear my favorite v-neck shirt because i will be putting certain thoughts into the minds of men., and that i should, indeed, "cover up". don't fucking tell me that WOMEN, cis or trans, should pander to the sick desires of men, just because they're the head of the household. fuck that shit.

you know what you can say? tell the men to stop objectifying us. tell them that we women are just as important to the larger scheme of things as they are. women are goddesses and ought to be treated and respected as such.

tell the men to see us as more than the sum of our parts. we are more than our breasts, our legs, our bottoms, our genitals, just as how they are more than their dicks.

i am fucking sick and tired, i say, of painstakingly choosing an outfit that reduces the likelihood of my being catcalled on the road.

sick. and. tired.

see me inna mi tight jeans, mi short skirt, mi cleavage-baring blouse, mi battyrider, mi crop top, mi carnival backline costume, mi bikini, and leave me the fuck alone.

selah.

I think it's about time that I take up this blogging habit again. The signs are there, what with my good friend impulseprose making a post for the first time since 2015, and a young man in my Twitter DMs who let me know that I should write more. I guess those may be the kick in the pants I needed to start doing something to help myself climb out of these doldrums I've been in for so long.

So. I'm back. Hopefully for an extended period of time.

I haven't written poetry in a very long time. I should begin to do that as well, not for anyone's gratification per se, but because I enjoy it. Maybe I should even publish a few (anonymously, of course). I don't know. I'll have to think about it some more.

But, since my last post, and for quite a long time before, I've been on an emotional rollercoaster, the likes of which I have never experienced in all my life. I've become even more of a recluse since I left UWI. I barely talk at all, except to my mom and younger sister. I shut people out (although that may be more subconscious than not).

What's the point of this post, you may ask.
I have no idea. The whole point of this blog is for me to ramble along in an effort to clear my mind of some of the thoughts splashing around therein, silence some of the voices.

I live in Kingston pretty much year-round now, because I'm apparently finishing a 4-year degree in 3 years and so I have to come to school during the summer. (UGH.)

It does, however, its advantages: I'm not at home, and so I don't have to go to church with my heathen self; I'm a lot more mobile than I would have been in Mandeville.

It also has its disadvantages: I'm not at home, so I barely take proper care of myself; my aunt lives near me and seems to believe that we should be joined at the hip for that reason -- although I'm doing my best to disabuse her of that notion.

One of my best days was Labor Day, which I spent with the Creed (I'm sure I've spoken about them before on here) because one of our members was going back to his home country a few days hence.

I'm not able to be around persons for more than, say, 3 hours at best (with a few exceptions) without becoming physically and emotionally drained, but I spent the better part of a whole day with those guys and enjoyed every minute of it. I didn't realize I needed time to be around persons who understood my little idiosyncrasies and worked with them until I had it. Thanks, guys.

That came on the heels of the darkest day I can remember: about two Saturdays before, the urge to seek the Great Perhaps became stronger than it has in months, and I sought out my razor and proceeded to break a promise I made to myself at the age of sixteen that I wouldn't self harm again.

(But then, a friend of mine said to me that we all self harm in some way; it's not always drug abuse or self-mutilation.)

Fifteen neat little slices on my left forearm. They still haven't healed fully. But I look at them, and I remember the Saturday night I tried to subjugate the urge by overshadowing emotional pain with physical and succeeded. I may not win the war, but when I win the battles, it gives me the strength to continue fighting.

I still fear death, in a sense, because I'm not sure what happens after I shed this mortal coil. I think that is the primary reason I haven't committed suicide yet, even though hell knows I've been wobbling more and more on that particular tightrope. Not necessarily the people who care about me, because I know, as I've known for years, that they'll go on without me. As I've had to go on without my uncle, who was a fundamental part of my life.

Am I fundamental to anyone? I highly doubt it.

Ah, there goes that negative self-image.

As I write this, I'm sitting in an almost-empty class ignoring that annoying drone of voices belonging to those happier than I.

It is almost 12:30, I'm reading The Chronicles of Narnia (for the first time. I'm almost ashamed of myself), and I'm...at a fragile sort of peace.

Chará.

King Jaye

Dear Uncle...

You would have been 34 today.

Instead, you’ve been lying in a casket at a place that I haven’t visited since the day we laid you to rest there almost seven months ago.

You’d have made a joke about how you’re getting old now. Deadpan delivery that would have made the joke ten times funnier.

It’s very difficult facing this day that would have been yours, that was yours for the past 33 years, without you.

Every day without you is a different type of difficult. I still ask myself why you had to go so soon. I have yet to find the answer.

But the fact is, you’re gone, and I’m still here, still trying to live in such a way to make you proud of who I’ve become since you died.

I didn’t know how integral you were in my life, didn’t know how big a space you filled in my heart, until you died and left that space wide open. They say you don’t really know what you have until it’s gone.

But, in honor of you, I will hold back the tears on this your special day. You wouldn’t have wanted me to spend a day that was meant to be happy, unhappy.

I still miss you. Every hour of every day, I wish to a God I don’t believe in that you were still here.

I understand that you did what you were placed on this earth to do, which was to touch the lives of everyone you came in contact with. I wish you’d taken a bit longer to do it, though.

So, I just wanted to let you know, if somehow you can, that I still love you, through all the tears I’ve shed, on my dark days and on my bright ones. I always will.

Wherever you are, I hope you’re happy.

Happy birthday. 💓

Love,

Trish.

--

attached is the tribute I read at his funeral. to this day I still can't fully read it without tearing up.

Tribute to Sheldon Stafford Forbes, my uncle... and friend.

My very earliest memories of Uncle Gar involved both of us going to Burger King, where he’d buy me a Kids’ Meal.

The majority of our encounters involved a car somehow. From then, when I was about four or so, until recently, the last time I ever saw him alive, which was when he drove me to Kingston. He was always the one who drove me to Youth Fellowship on Fridays whenever I wanted to go. I’d just message him and say ‘yo, u free later? Wah go church’ and usually he wouldn’t respond, but I’d know to be ready by 7pm.

On all those drives, he always had a word of advice to offer regarding whatever situation I was telling him about. I can still hear his voice in my head saying things like ‘ketch yuhself a watch yuhself enuh B’ or ‘hangle yuh business, nuh watch nuh face’

He was like a brother to me. Whenever mommy and I beefed, he’d listen to my side of the story (I knew he always got hers) and he never hesitated to say ‘no Trish, yuh wrong this time’ whenever I was at fault. But whenever mommy was at fault, his favourite line was ‘a suh yuh mumma tan massah, just haffi ignore him till e come round again’

He gave excellent advice. Things I couldn’t talk to mommy about, I could talk to him about, and it was always refreshing to learn about life and love from a man’s perspective.

He was always boosting me. I remember when I graduated from Bishops and he said to me that the journey doesn’t end there. When I left 6^th form he said ‘a now the struggle ago start enuh’. This year when he was taking me to school, in the car he said I had to make the best of this opportunity I have now, because there are many people who would do anything for it.

In my successes, he was always there with a smile on his face to say ‘see, me tell you seh you cudda dweet enuh’. In my despairs, he was always there to say ‘pick up and try again’. I can’t remember any period in my life where he wasn’t there, whether in the background or at the forefront.

I remember when mommy was pregnant. Whenever I was at school, she took out her bad mood on him until I came home. Then she took it out on me. Whatever cravings she had, she just whipped out her phone: “Gar mi want this” and anywhere he had to go for it, he went.

When Gabby was born he came around a lot and it always warmed my heart to see him hold her so delicately, and even as she grew bigger and was scared of him, he didn’t let that affect him, he never stopped until she could recognize the car horn and run onto the veranda screaming ‘uncle Gar come!’ and even then it was beautiful to watch him play with her.

His sense of fun and humor was something else. Sometimes we’d be in the car and out of nowhere he’d start messing up my hair or making faces at me (while driving, mind you). I especially enjoyed watching him and mommy interact. She’s not really a hugger, so sometimes he’d come for a hug and she pushed him off...he still took his hug and laughed at her.

He was the type to tell you the world’s funniest joke and watch you there in stitches like ‘a wah do da mad gyal yah man’

I honestly could talk about him all day.

I remember the last time I saw him, he told me where he left my stuff and that he wrote my name on everything. He gave me a hug before he left and said to me, “Trish, take care a yuhself, keep yuh head pon yuh body” and drove away.

The last thing he said to me was via WhatsApp on August 26. He asked if I was ok and then said ‘remember weh mi tell you.’

I miss his strength. When I was moving off hall in May, I had a lot of stuff. I have a suitcase of clothes that weighs more than I do, and he picked it up with ease and walked down 3 flights of stairs with it. I didn’t really appreciate the show of strength until I had to do the same thing, down 3 flights of steps, across a quad and up 3 more flights of steps, by myself, and then it came to me. He never complained, he just wiped sweat off his face and carried on.

I miss listening to him talk about football, I miss listening to him make fun of me and mommy, I miss hearing the sound of his car outside our gate on Saturdays or Sundays when he came for breakfast or dinner. I miss randomly getting a message from him saying ‘yuh good?’, or from 400 saying I got credit from him. I miss the little things, I miss the big things.

It wasn’t the same on August 28 when I went back to town without him.

It won’t be the same when someone else calls me Trish. It won’t be the same when I have to take a taxi to go to church on Friday evenings. It won’t be the same to have to write my name on my stuff myself when I move back on hall next year.

I am happy, though, to have had him in my life for 18 years. I’m happy that he knew I loved him, even when I didn’t tell him, I always showed him. I’m happy that I knew that he loved me, even when he didn’t say it. His actions always showed it. So even though he probably can’t hear me now, Scott, I love you...and thank you for everything.

It's been a long time since I've been here. ...

Writers' Block is a bitch. A real bitch. I've been blocked for the better part of a year.
Not cool, inner me. Not cool.

Anyway. What have I been up to since my last post back in... March? I think it was March. But yeah.

Finished my first year of college as a depressed insomniac.
(More of one, that is.)

Ended up switching schools, which is something I'll elaborate on as time goes by if I feel like it.
Suffice it for now to say that I got a scholarship to attend the school I'm currently at.

Also, the most important thing -- I lost my uncle in August.
That was...the worst experience I've had in 19 years of life.
I don't think I've really spoken about it in depth to anyone. I'm not sure if I really can, as I've gotten so used to internalizing my pain. But talking to various friends -- and Iceburg, oddly enough...although I've now renamed him as the First Edition Fuckboy -- really helped.

Speaking of "various friends", I should introduce y'all to the Village Taker. (He'll say "kek" when he sees this.)

I met him in about January of 2016 off of Twitter (bless that app, I swear), and to this day, over a year later, he's been an amazing friend to me.

In light of this, I probably ought to be nicer to him
Sike!
Love you, though, bropal

So...ramble ramble, ramble.

How am I?

I'm not okay, but it'll be okay eventually.
Sometimes it gets too much and I'm tempted to cut -- I've got a pack of razors in my suitcase to shape up my eyebrows -- but I'm proud of myself so far for not giving in to temptation.

I've discovered new music, and it really does help.

I'm gonna start writing again. My words have been garbled, but I'm sure that, given time, they'll be intelligible again. In the meantime, I stay tweeting.

Chará.

King Jaye