this has been a long and painful absence

I'm sure I could find out if I wanted to, but right now I simply cannot remember the last time I went this long without blogging. Weird. I find myself planning posts out in my head as humorous (or otherwise) things happen to me. They all start with, So...

So... Where did I leave you? I believe I'd just been vomited on by that charming girl from the Fez.

In short, since then I've moved out of the house I've lived in my entire house, and into a spangly new flat in Royal Holloway that smells of new paint and cleaning fluids.

That's what I need to tell you about, the smells.

Three smells that shall forever remind me of Fresher's Week:
1) The interesting 'new' smell in our kitchen that I liked at first but now makes me feel sick.
2) The scented toilet block in my en-suite that I liked at first but now makes me feel sick.
3) The smell of newly chopped/slowly composting woodchips that I didn't really like at first and now definitely don't like on account of them making me feel sick.

I'm going for information rather than order here.

I don't have internet in my room yet, I won't until I get a PC next week so blogging will be sporadic and shite. Please leave me comments, I'm so lonely.

My new flatmates are called Reena, Kate, Adam and Endrit. We're still missing a sixth person. Everybody here apart from me has interesting names and languages and accents. Am boring.

Number of times I have left the flat since 4pm on Tuesday:
.....5. For no more than a couple of hours each.

I got ill on the Sunday after I arrived. Stomach cramps. Say no more. Off to bed I went, for a hefty seven hour nap. Then I was fine.

Until Tuesday. Because at 8pm on Tuesday, I woke up from yet another nap feeling distinctly delicate.

(I stayed up til 4am that morning talking to my flatmate, which is one of the Nicer things that has happened to me here.)

At 8:05pm on Tuesday, the vomiting started.

And carried on.

And carried on some more.

Then it headed south.

I woke up on Wednesday evening feeling absolutely unbearably homesick. I started calling and txting everyone from home in a desperate attempt to feel better.

My flatmates came back from their 'hurrah we have student loans' shopping trip and brought me a lollipop, which made me ill but happy.

Thursday I felt better. So I got up, went to the Fresher's Fayre (1) and joined the Ninjitsu club, the Christian Union, People and Planet, Comedy Society, Drama society and the Girl Guides. Don't ask me how the hell that happened.

Then I ate potato wedges. With ketchup. And it all got a bit blurry.

A few hours later, I woke up in my bed again, feeling grotty. Martin and Liz came to see me, which was lovely, but made me sad because I couldn't eat the chocolate they gave me and they couldn't take me home with them.

We had a corridor party. Everyone had Bacardi. I had a shotglass of Pepto Bismal. My flatmates looked after me (BLESS THEIR SOULS THEY HAVE LOOKED AFTER ME).

This morning I woke up feeling better. Not having learnt from my mistakes, I decided to leave the flat.

I felt sick and came home and slept for a few hours.

Then I decided to go out and buy a book. That was when I realised my debit card was missing.

The lost property at the Student Union doesn't open again til Monday. By that time my student loan could be gone. So as soon as I'm done blogging, I'm off to cancel the first grown up card I've ever had. Unused. Sigh.

Don't get me wrong. The people here are beyond lovely. The clubs are fun, the booze is cheap, the campus is gorgeous and my room is heeyowge. I've even found a local rock club. My course looks awesome, difficult but soo interesting. And, woohoo, the drama students are ace. Not an asshole among them.

Let me say this once and for all - I AM GOING TO BE HAPPIER HERE.

Once I've stopped mainlining Pepto Bismal and my toilet has stopped smelling of that rim block, that is.

rewind yesterday

I think it might be best if I tell you about yesterday's events in reverse order. This is because an icky thing and an important thing happened yesterday and once I've mentioned the important thing, the icky thing kind of seems irrelevant. If it doesn't make sense, try reading them backwards. Well, not literally backwards... By the way, if you're squeamish, I apologise.

*****

I go to bed and have a dream in which Tim and I go up to London and swim in this big outdoor pool. A guy with a camera shows up and turns out to be the guy who killed Millie Dowler. He gets nuclear on our asses and we have to make a soggy run for it. The guy in the dream is the drunk bloke in the suit from the Fez Club, the camera is the one my brother bought on Sunday. I can't explain Tim or the swimming pool.

I get home and notice a snail crawling its way up the front door. I'm tempted to move it to safety because it's really clinging on for dear life, but I don't like to interfere and I'm scared if I touch it, it'll fall.

In the car on the way home, I'm in a shitty mood, slightly cold and wet and very annoyed. He beckons to me that I should hold his hand. I reach out but he closes his hand on mine too soon and too tight and crushes my fingers into my palm.

There's a nice sky.

In the carpark, I pull off my disgusting, wet t-shirt and throw it on the floor. I put on my sexy new pink cardigan and realise that 1) boleros are not meant to keep you warm and 2) diddy cardigan and jeans is a very good but very slutty look.

I find out that Chris is a quarter black. This explains why his ginger hair is afro-ed and why he's such a good dancer.

Liz and I storm out of the Fez and find Martin and Chris outside. I tell them what happened to my t-shirt and they laugh.

I push my way through the club, feeling sick, and walk into the guy whose dreads I was playing with earlier. He chuckles.

I struggle back into my t-shirt and try not to gag when the wet patch touches my face.

Me and the blonde girl debate whether going topless is a good idea. She says it's worth it for the attention but I think it's too cold. She tells me she likes my bra and we agree the lingerie from Marks is worth the extra money.

A blonde girl staggers out of a nearby cubicle and asks me why I've got my tits out. I tell her.

I pull my t-shirt off and throw it into the brass sink. I try not to look at the water rushing down the plughole.

Liz says: "Um, Fi, look at your t-shirt."

I run into the toilet and wash my arm and hand in the sink, trying not to gag.

I feel something warm dripping down my arm.

As we turn to leave the club, a girl pushes past me. I'm about to give her the finger when I realise that she's vomiting profusely.

A huge female bouncer drags him out by his shoulders. I wouldn't mess with her.

While we're dancing to Rage Against the Machine, this 40 year old man in a suit staggers over with a bottle of beer and starts throwing his weight around. Literally. He's about 5 seconds away from breaking the glass on someone's head.

A hot black guy walks past and I play with his dreads. He messes up my hair. Chris is hurt that his ginger afro is no longer the best hair in the room.

My arm starts itching from where I smuggled the chilli in my sleeve.

We drive to the Fez in Reading. Stupidly, I leave my cardigan in the car.

At Martin's house, before Liz picks us up, I steal a green chilli from his kitchen.

I tell Martin what happened in the morning and he cheers me up by helping me draw rude pictures in Microsoft Paint.

I spend about three hours packing in the living room. I watch Friends and get really emotional when I'm wrapping up my ornaments and candles. I try to decide which cuddly toys to take with me and cry when my mum keeps mentioning ones that I've forgotten to pack already.

I get home and eat a massive toasted sandwich with ham, chicken, cheese and salad. I eat three raw mushrooms.

I walk around Yateley for a while, and start to feel more positive. Fuck it, I think, I can get this sorted on my own. I decide to start thinking logically.

I stop by a bramble bush and pick the biggest, fattest blackberry. I eat it without washing it and feel really naughty. It tastes fantastic.

I switch on my CD player, breathe deeply, get up and walk.

People walk past and stare at me like I'm crazy. I don't even find it funny for once.

I run out of the doctor's surgery and straight past the church into the graveyard. I go to the memorial bench for Beattie Divall and sit down. I cry, loudly and messily, for about ten minutes.

The doctor says goodbye and I fumble with my bag. It seems to take forever for the door to close and I feel like he's watching me. He's not, of course.

He tells me I need to get out more.

He tells me that adolescence is a very difficult time.

I think of my blog and my diaries and chuckle.

He tells me I'm too self-analytical.

I say yes.

He asks if I've ever felt suicidal.

I tell him sometimes it feels like I'm on the outside of my self, watching me live my life and mess it al up.

I tell him I wasn't exactly great the year before that either.

I tell him I've been unhappy for over a year. Like, really unhappy.

He tells me I'm fully immunised and vaccinated and, is that all?

The doctor calls me in and checks my medical records.

I leave home ten minutes late and listen to Counting Crows on the way.

I wake up feeling shite. It bodes well.

question meme

I need to stop hanging around on Livejournal.com...

1. Reply with your name and I'll respond with something random about you.
2. I'll tell you what song/film reminds me of you.
3. I'll pick a flavour of jelly to wrestle with you in.
4. I'll say something that only makes sense to you and me.
5. I'll tell you my first memory of you.
6. I'll tell you what animal you remind me of.
7. I'll ask you something that I've always wondered about you.
8. If I do this for you, you must post this on your journal.

I don't know how many of y'all I know well enough for this to actually work... *coughcough* Stacey and Emilie, step forward now! *coughcough*

Update on Fi: I go to the pub, I eat chips, I club, I come home, I don't sleep, I pack for uni and I read Shakespeare. I also eat a lot of sandwiches. I get sad that my friends are GOING!

the focus

Tell me to grow up.

Tell me to slow down.

Tell me I have to buck my ideas up.

Tell me to prioritise.

Tell me I've got a lot to do.

Tell me to smile.

Tell me to concentrate.

Tell me I'm wrong.

Tell me I'm always happy.

Tell me who I am.

Tell me I'll be ok.

Tell me I'm being stupid.

Tell me it's just a phase.

Tell me to take up a hobby.

Tell me I'm beautiful.

Tell me I'm dependent.

Tell me you miss me.

Tell me what I look like.

Tell me you don't understand.

Pretend that you do.

Tell me I'm not on my own.

Tell me God loves me.

Tell me to focus.

That's when I'll laugh and tell you that, out of all of the above, the one thing I'm sure of is that I'm focussing. There should be beads of sweat pouring down my face because my god, I'm focussed. On getting up in the morning. On sleeping. On eating. On finding my bed at night. On trying to feel better. On trying to figure it out.

Tell me to focus. Tell me to cheer up.

Just for shits and giggles, why not tell me to relax? Do you know what would happen if I did that? If I lost focus?

at the pub take two

My conversation about religion with Jed was a long and at times heated one. We went for the big questions, such as 'are you sure you're a Christian and not an agnostic?' and 'how can any text that's been tampered with by human hands be seen to be infallible gospel?'.

I'm not even gonna try and repeat it here because Jed is very well-read and I'm very tired and can't remember the details of what was said.

Our conclusion was that it's not God I have doubts about, it's people. It's religion that pisses me off, what people make it, what people have made it.

I love these conversations, really getting into it and working it down until you can't go any further without a mutual concession or some kind of surrender.

Jed mentions that one of his aims in life is never to be lost in a conversation. To have something to say, no matter how banal or irrelevant about absolutely anything. Imagine that, if you had something to say about everything. Sit yourself down next to anyone on earth and bam, you've got yourself a conversation. No one in the world who you couldn't relate to.

Such an unattainable but wonderful goal to have.

the endless summer

I think maybe I write about clubbing too much. Ah well. Have some lists.

Things I learnt at the Ag on Saturday:

1) Some people are stupid enough to burn you with their cigarettes while you're at the bar. Some people even do it on purpose. You might say that cigarette burns are like buses. You go to a club for months and nothing happens and suddenly, two cigarette burns come along at once.

2) Sometimes, playing it classy and just walking away from sleazy blokes isn't enough. Occasionally, after they've groped you, burnt you with their cigarette and licked you on the shoulder by way of apology, it is appropriate just to backhand them around the face and tell them to fuck off.

3) That guy with the tongue piercing really isn't interested in you. Or that girl. Or that other girl. He really is just that much of a slut.

In other news, last night we discovered the Fez Club in Reading, which is officially my new favourite place. It's all done up like a Persian kazbah or something, lamps and candles and beaten brass sinks in the toilets. Nice.

I've been feeling very nostalgic about this summer. I went to the Ag with my bitches for the last time before we all start buggering off to uni on Saturday. The girls will still be around next week but it won't quite be the same. So here's my tribute to this summer and the many many nights out that it has contained.

The Choons, Summer '05 - otherwise known as the songs we listen to in Liz's car, the songs they always play at the Ag and the songs we got on the jukebox in Dublin.

Chemical Brothers, Push the Button - which came on in Subway in Dublin, and we danced.
Hed Automatica, Beating Heart Baby - it took us the entire summer to figure out who sings this song.
System of a Down, B.Y.O.B
Reel Big Fish, Where Have You Been? - our driving to Camberley/Dorset/Reading song.
Jimmy Eat World, Sweetness - singing while dressed as pirates songs.
The Killers, Smile Like You Mean It, Somebody Told Me, Mr Brightside - songs that I passed out during at Reading, songs that made Liz and Stacey cry in Dublin, songs that we changed the lyrics to when we were feeling bitchy...
Foo Fighters, Best of You - song that makes me sad, sounded so good at Reading. "I've got another confessions to make / I'm your fool..."
Rage Against the Machine, Killing in the Name Of - every single person in the Ag sticking their middle fingers up while the DJ takes a photo on his digital camera and everyone screams "Fuck you, I won't do what you tell me." Liz and I change the lyrics to "I won't sweep where you tell me" when I'm playing a maid in a play and get pissed off.
Limp Bizkit, Rolling - we just discovered the Fez song, dancing with guys with tongue piercings song, why am I the only one in this club that knows the dance song.
Linkin Park, Faint - I've just arrived at the Ag for the first time and this is the song that plays as I walk in and the heat hits me like a kipper.
Disturbed, Down with the Sickness - dancing is good for you. This song is good for you. It's very good for me.
Marilyn Manson, Beautiful People - of course I disapprove of Marilyn on principle because everyone has to these days. But still: skanking, moshing and getting beaten up at Reading song.
Feeder, Buck Rogers - playing on the jukebox at college over and over song, listening to on the way home from everything song, our anthem song. "We'll start over again / grow ourselves new skins..."
Gorillaz, Sunshine - Dublin song.
Coldplay, Everything's Not Lost - Dublin song, last beautiful moment of group unity and nostalgia before Liz hurled song.
Green Day, Basketcase, Holiday - first year of college anthem, first song I heard at the Ag on my 18th birthday. "This is the dawning of the rest of our lives..."
Sum 41, Fat Lip - dancing with guys song, back when we were at school song. "Don't count on me / 'cos I'm not listening..."
U2, Beautiful Day - crossing the River Liffey listening to Andy's mp3 player with Liz, singing so loud that truck drivers are staring at us song. Gonna be played at my funeral song. Atomic Bomb Moment song.

Atomic Bomb Moments - that moment when an atomic bomb hits, and your world just stops. I always wonder what it would be like to look up and see that bomb hurtling down. What would you do? What would you want to be doing? I personally would like to be screaming the word 'bollocks' (as in life, so in death). But you get these moments in life, points so sweet that an atomic bomb could fall on you right then and end everything and you wouldn't give a shit.

As well as the Beautiful Day moment, there was the lying on the Wellington monument with Liz moment, the listening to Bittersweet Symphony with Ed and Laura moment and so many Insomnia moments.

Faithless, Insomnia - not just because I really can't get no sleep. At the Ag, in the middle, every single person with their hands in the air, the moment when the theme comes in and the world goes crazy. Fuck it. If it's gonna happen, this mass destruction, let it happen then.

for a change, here's one of my dad's stories

I'm terrified about forgetting stuff.

My dad's been telling me stories recently. He keeps telling me I should write things down, that all these hours I've wasted on the internet could have been better spent writing about my thoughts and experiences, making some kind of record of what I've been up to... I have mentioned my blog, but I'm not sure he knows what a 'blog' is.

He says he wishes he'd written stuff down when he was younger. Before he started his 30 year career at Sony he worked on the buses in Aberdeen as a conductor. The weirdest and most wonderful bits of humanity that Aberdeen had to offer were on the late buses and my dad saw them all. Tonight he told me about the ladies of the night.

One of the local legends was a woman called Big Teeny. Big Teeny would ride the last buses round the city and clobber unruly drunks with her handbag. No joke. Many's a time she saved the conductor from getting a thump for telling thugs to keep the language down. He'd ask, all polite, if the lads could keep the swearing down and before they could kick his ass Big Teeny would stagger down from the back and give them a concussion with whatever it is that prostitutes keep in their bags.

One night, Big Teeny had been hitting the home brew pretty hard and was causing a ruckus on the bus. It was an unspoken rule that the Ladies (Big Teeny, Ma Maudie and Snuffy Ivy with the adenoidal problems) didn't pay on the buses - it was thought that there should be at least one place in the city where they rode for free. As it were. My dad, new to the job and naive as to the way things worked, asked Big Teeny if she had the thruppeny ticket she needed to travel. Big Teeny swelled up like bagpipes and replied:

"FECK OFF. D'YA NAE KEN WHO I AM?!"

He'd had a rough day. He wasn't in the mood.

"Alright, that's it, I'm not having that kind of language on my bus. Get off, go on, bugger off, you've got no ticket and you're not getting a free ride out of us."

Big Teeny gets off, effing and blinding her way up Union Street, home brew still in hand. The driver stops the bus and calls my dad.

"Charles? Did that woman I see walking up the street just get off this bus?"

"Aye, she did."

"And was that her I heard yelling?"

"Aye, that was her."

"Would I be right in thinking that you just threw her off this bus?"

"Aye, I did."

"Charles, are you fecking mad? Do you know who that was?"

"No, who?"

"That was Big Teeny, you eejit."

And my dad said, oh shit...

Because everyone knew who Big Teeny was, by reputation if not by sight. She was legendary, not only for being a very accomplished whore, but for being a tough bitch to cross. A couple of years before the showdown with my father, she'd been tried for murder on account of breaking a bottle in half and stabbing a man in the throat with it.

She pleaded guilty, but maintained that it was self-defence, the guy was trying to rape her. You wouldn't expect a boxer to be beaten up in the street, the judge said, so even prostitutes have the right not to be raped.

Big Teeny walked free. But everyone knew that she killed a man, and nobody messed with her again. Well, almost nobody. Safe to say my dad didn't walk home on his own much after that.

*****

I realises that doing this is important to me. I don't want to get old and not remember my stories.

the first of september

A couple of years ago, before I sat my GCSEs, my mum and I went shopping to Tesco in the middle of a heatwave. It was getting to the tail-end of the wave, the bit right before it breaks and you get that massive thunderstorm.

I was in a shitty mood. I had been for days. Aside from anything else, the heat was really getting to me. I couldn't sleep at night so I'd lie awake listening to Evanescence until I eventually passed out around dawn when I felt cooler. Exam stress was getting to me as well but mainly? I was just mad at everything.

Mum and I were driving back from Tesco and I was complaining about this mood, how I was grouchy and annoyed at the littlest things, how the heat was driving me crazy. And how it had gotten so much worse that day. In a few short hours I'd gone from pissed off to utterly furious for no discernible reason.

As we drove into Yateley, the storm broke. Thunder rolled and sheets of rain came pouring down. And suddenly, I was happy. I was in the best mood, laughing uncontrollably as we hurried to get the shopping in dry. Mum thought it was great, told me I had some weird weather thing going on. I said I just hated heatwaves.

Pathetic fallacy, I think, that literary thing where the action mirrors the weather. Lord of the Flies - incredible heat builds, kids get antsy, the metaphorical storm breaks and BAM, suddenly the thunder's rolling, Simon's dead and Piggy's shitting bricks.

I sat and watched the thunderstorm with Paul last night. I've never been outside for one before. We were walking on the green when it broke and we ran to hide under a tree. We counted the seconds between lightning and thunder to see if it was getting closer.

Aside from the normal life updates, Paul and I tend to talk about one of three things: movies, sex and religion. Thunderstorms call for big and important topics. After we'd exchanged theories on the meaning of life, I mentioned Rob's beer-fuelled theory on religion (if you missed it, see the post called 'at the pub'). Paul wanted to know about DIY religion. Is it OK for people to pick and choose the bits they like and don't like from religions? After all, isn't everyone entitled to the ladder they like best?

Paul's analogy on religion goes like this: Religion is like camping. You can either go camping with the Scouts, or go camping on your own. If you go with the Scouts, you have to follow their rules. You have to eat their food, obey their curfews, not feel up any Girl Guides. If you go camping on your own you can do pretty much whatever you want but you're isolated. When you set fire to your dinner, there's no one to help put it out. Late at night when the heebie jeebies set in, there's nobody to keep you company. Campfire singsongs aren't much fun on yor own.

If you go to a church or mosque or whatever you like, you're obliged to do it their way. If you just pick the bits you like and go camping in your own field, it's tailor made. You get to be outdoorsy and stay up past midnight. All very well. But, my argument was, you can be a Christian without being part of a church if you want to be, but if you're not camping with the boy Scouts, and you're not keeping the boy Scout promise then you're pretty much just a guy in a field with a tent. To be a Scout you have to act like a Scout.

This was supposed to be about thunderstorms, but it kind of makes sense. See, I've been camping on my own recently. I'm still chilling out with the boy Scouts but as far as the way I've been behaving, I'm in a completely different field. Why? Because becoming a good Scout requires time, effort, persistence and dedication. I have none of these things. I'm looking for quick fixes.

Thunderstorms bring out the best in me. Paul and I eventually ended up under the edge of the Tythings, getting soaked from the knees down by the rain ricocheting off the floor. I was standing right under the guttering, flicking my hands through the overflow from the ceiling when I realised that thunder doesn't scare me anymore. I'm just not afraid like I used to be. I mention this to Paul and he says, of course you're not scared, God's got your back.

It's not that bad stuff won't happen to me, I said, I'm as likely to get struck by lightning as you are. It's just that I have nothing to be afraid of.

Well don't you know it, my own personal pathetic fallacy thunderstorm happened today. Too much hot weather has been building up for too long and now it's breaking. All that tension, all that bland muggy heat has turned into absolute floods. My mum reckons my emotions are bound up in the weather. Maybe my inner Literature student just couldn't let this opportunity for a metaphor go by without comment.

Oh, and I know it's not the first of September today. But it's the first time it's happened this September.

eventually

Eventually even I get sick of whining. I hate the sound of my voice when I get upset so, on the phone, I decide to change tack and spend some time listing a few of the things that I love about the world.

Good things. It went like this:

Jelly-beans. The gourmet ones that come with a menu and you get flavours like cinnamon and Pina Colada.

The green ones taste best. It's a sure thing when you pick a green one, even without the menu.

Cider, and the way that pints of it go straight to my head.

Boursin.

Alanis Morrisette songs.

Peeing outside.

Telling my best friend that I'll always be her bitch and getting her mascara on my white t-shirt when she cries.

Socks. The word, and the socks themselves.

My bed. My sheets. My quilt and my teddies and my glow in the dark aquarium on the ceiling.

The poems I printed out and stuck on my wall.

Shakespeare.

Depeche Mode.

Sweetcorn.

Films with Jim Carrey in.

My wellies.

My parents.

My Bloodstock festival t-shirt that has the name of my brother's band in the line-up.

Swearwords, shouted out loud, in public.

Atomic bomb moments.

Making lists.

Writing in italics.

Abba. The father. Not the band. They were shite. God's great. There's a subtle difference.

at the pub

Rob says: "As far as I can see, the problem with a lot of religions is this: it's like in that film, Dogma, where the guy says that some religions mourn their faith and other religions celebrate it. The way I see it, most religions have figured out that God is up here-"

He waves his hand at about chest level.

"-And human beings are all the way down here."

He slaps his hand on the table.

"Now. The difference is that some religions see it as oh, dude, what a drag, we're all the way down here and God's all the way up there and we can never measure up to his greatness...shit... Other religions see it as well hang on, we may be all the way down here but there's this guy all the way up there who's on our side and wants to look after us. SWEET!"

Then there's some beer on his part and some cider on my part and we continue.

I say: "The way I see it is that yeah, human beings are probably inherently evil. We're basically inherently a bit rubbish and the point of our existence is to get past that, to become less rubbish. In theory, as society has progressed, we've become less and less rubbish. We're slowly learning not to shit on each other and we've got stuff like charities and the welfare state and Make Poverty History...we're learning to combat our inherent shiteness."

Then we both say: "So that's the point of it then, to be less rubbish. The whole point of life is to go against the part of us that is selfish and me-me-me and try and improve upon what we started with. Like animals. All animals have that self-preservation instinct, the unconscious desire to stay alive as long as possible. That's what makes humans different. We have the choice to go against that instinct and choose to preserve each other instead."

And Rob says something that makes me think: "That's basically what everyone is trying to do. Every religion, every moral code and belief system has been about this - trying to get upwards. Religions are trying to get closer to God. He's up there and we've all kinds of different ladders and shit and we're all trying to shimmy up to reach him. Going against human shiteness is part of that, it's trying to get up there, trying to get somewhere better."

About then, I remember being told that sin is as simple as not doing the right thing. If you could have chosen a more righteous course, you should have, and that's as complicated as it gets. Doing anything that drives you away from God is a sin. Putting anything before God is a sin.

Anything that sends you shimmying the wrong way down that ladder. Anything that pushes someone else down theirs. That's what we're not supposed to do. And I'm like, yeah, that makes sense. There's no such thing as good or bad Christians, just obedient ones. Thanks for that, Rachel.