The Squirrel of Carbs

Many years ago, to compost stale food I would throw the offenders off my balcony into the field behind my apartment. I figured the bugs and animals could do better work than a landfill. One day, I launched a quarter loaf of bread into the yard. I went back inside to check on the laundry, and then grabbed some damp clothes to hang outside. As I’m hanging the shirts, I noticed the loaf is missing in the field. I scanned the space and saw a squirrel grasping the sizable loaf in both his claws. He was hugging it, spooning it, owning it, and just wrapping every ounce of his being into this yeast-infused treasure. I couldn’t help but laugh at the absurdity of the scene. I returned to my chores without realizing the impact I made on that squirrel’s diet--nay, life.

Click for full-size squirrel on loaf.

As I was locking up my apartment a few days later, I heard a screech behind me. A squirrel was hissing at me. His body tense, his voice shrill--it was the squirrel from the yard! I wasn’t sure how to process the situation, so I left for school knowing I gave that squirrel a taste for bread that couldn’t be sated any longer by weekly scraps. He was addicted to his newfound wheat belly, and I was the dealer responsible for his unnatural desire. The next day, I explored the balcony and found that the squirrel--let’s call him Carb Squirrel--took up residence in a little hole in a brick pillar. What’s better for a critter than a second-floor loft next to an irresponsible human that recklessly flings biscuits out their window?

A couple months later, Carb Squirrel charmed a lady squirrel into moving in with him. Such a sweet story if you remove the part where this doubled the amount of squirrel screaming. As far as terrible neighbors go, I figure two animals that harass you daily for not serving them food ranks pretty high. Eventually, they stopped berating me since I no longer hurled food into the yard after I saw the effect it had on Carb Squirrel.

I suppose that’s the lesson. I went from someone that didn’t think twice about throwing food away in my backyard, to someone who now makes a conscious effort to reduce waste and to properly compost whenever possible. I live clear across the country now, but I wish nothing but the best for Carb Squirrel and his companion. I’m sure they had squirrel babies and told stories of the giant, unfurred gluten dealer that caused their father’s diabetes. But more likely, rest with pieces of croutons, Carb Squirrel. I hope your legacy of doing a bread shotgun lives on in that backyard.

A Collection of (Rough) Cinquain Poems

My stuff
Where is my crap?
Ugh, you lost the damn thing
Customer service does jack shit
Not pleased.

Frozen
More Lean Cuisines
Spruce it up with rice, cheese
Tastes like a fancy feast to me
Cat food.

Red light
You drove through it
Pay heed to your own life
If not that, the ones around you
You suck.

Three words
Two hearts lay still
Thousand meanings between
One moment arrested by time
Gone... Gone.

Brie cheese
That creamy funk
I eat the rind, of course
Too lazy to put on crackers
Still good.

T Bell
What is this shit?
Tacos shaped like canoes
The beef is like a donkey paste
Let’s go.

Author's note: Five out of the six poems are based on today's events. Food is my muse.

Go Fly Yourself

No. I never enjoyed flying kites. Well, I mean, the only kite I ever flew was a rickety, plastic number from Kmart that broke on its maiden voyage. What’s the joy in watching something else fly—let alone watching it suffer for mere minutes before crippling itself after reaching street light altitude?

As a kid and still today I love riding roller coasters. I feel such a rush going fast, going up high; I want that feeling to last, I always want to fly. (Ahem.) I guess you can say I want to be the one in the sky hovering above the land below. Of course, I have no wings or sails or wind to assist with this desire. Also, I don’t believe a hot air balloon home above Seattle will ever be a possibility. Despite these current limitations, humans are resourceful beings; and where’s there’s profit in recreation, corporations are sure to find a way. So, I have a goal to do at least two of the following three activities to scratch that flighty itch:

• Skydiving - This is the most likely of all three activities. I know plenty of folks that partook with rave reviews. You get the safety of a trained specialist tasked with yanking your (parachute) chain along with a backup sail. Not to mention a video that captures the inevitable screaming and laughing only you will appreciate.

• Bungee jumping - This seems unpleasant. You want to feel like you’re helplessly falling thousands of feet before halting and ricocheting back up like dead weight? Go for it. I get that feeling every time I play a 3D Mario game. I get 10 inches near a ledge and I clench so hard I could suffocate the dust mites in the air.
• Parasailing - Now, this is the ultimate human kite experience. This seems perfect for a tropical beach trip. I have nothing bad to say about parasailing. What a lovely prospect! (“You won’t fly the kite, kid… You’ll BECOME THE KITE!” That's the concept for a terrible Bruce Lee-inspired Netflix movie starring no one notable.)

The year is ending and I would prefer to not dive through the sky accompanied by freezing rain, so I’ll look into skydiving in the spring. I have to do it soon while the heart’s still functioning properly. If my mom is any indication, a spoon falling from the counter to the floor will make my heart skip several beats in about 30 years. As for kites, thanks for inspiring me to fly hopefully better than you.

Wine Bags and Weird Blisters

One weekend in college, my roommates and I cracked open some boxed wine. The bag nearly drained, we decided to bring our drunk selves to some unfortunate bar. But first, I had to get ready.

For whatever stupid reason back then, I was adamant about my hair being pin-straight for all special occasions—most importantly for those occasions I hardly remember. I ran to my bedroom to heat up the straightening iron at my desk/vanity/dinner table, and then returned to nurse my mug of wine. After a few pre-gaming gulps, I returned to iron my hair. The strands scorched to an acceptable crisp, I placed the iron on my chair and grabbed some clothes. I picked a shirt, skirt, and the choice to not adorn my undercarriage with full-coverage briefs. Noticing my eye makeup needed a touch-up, I sat at my desk and felt a lava-like heat down there I’ll never forget. I landed—bare ass, skirt up—on the iron and shot straight back up in surprise. The brilliant part comes after: I was so drunk that my reaction was to sit back down to calm my butt cheek’s fury. I then shot up a second time, outraged that I ironed my ass not once but twice. Luckily for my nerves, I was mentally checked out so it didn’t hurt too badly. I definitely went out dancing and shook my second-degree burned ass.

I woke up the next day with the heat of a thousand brands on my fanny. Sunday was a workday—eight frustrating hours at Home Depot awaited. As I changed, I caught a glimpse of my posterior in the mirror and saw the shame lines. Since I sat twice on the iron dead center, and knowing there are two heated plates, the burns had blistered across both cheeks for a total of eight blister strips (is that the scientific term?). The constant pain wasn’t too terrible; no, the real issue was surface interaction. When I sat down in my car, I catapulted my pelvis into the air feeling the shock down under. I don’t know how common butt blisters are, but they are TENDER BUBBLES. I had to perch on my car seat like a one-legged catcher and used my free leg to accelerate and brake. Since cashiers generally stand at post, the blisters could breathe more freely. Outside of cashiering, however, I learned that you don’t stand for much of anything. I had to perch at home and in class. After two days of living like an owl, I was perched on the carpet writing a paper. I wanted to protect the butt bubbles, but I couldn’t squat another second. I took a deep breath and plopped my ass on the floor. You don’t really know weird feelings until eight ass blisters squish under your weight into carpet. Luckily the apartment was a rental.

You’re probably wondering why I would tell such an embarrassing tale. Well, it’s been over 10 years, so whatever statute of shame limitation exists must have expired by now. What rekindled this memory was the warning on my straightening iron I noticed the other day:

Peculiar warnings like this must be derived from an actual incident, right? In a world where someone has tried to straighten their eye (lashes, brows, balls?), I guess burning ass isn't the craziest thing they need to forewarn.

Poop and Consequence

“Eat the Egg McMuffin,” she said, dropping it on the empty hot cakes and sausage foam plate. “I don't want you complaining within two hours at the park that you're hungry.” I wasn’t hungry though. I just finished three pancakes and some sort of meat patty. I asked her to take it away, but my mom insisted. “We’ll go to Six Flags when you eat this; until it’s gone, we’re not leaving.” I couldn’t let an egg sandwich come between me and roller coaster heaven, so I grinned and ate it. After a grueling take-down, my mom, dad, sister, my swell stomach, and I headed back into the car for our annual trip to Six Flags Great America.

You may wonder why I had to eat more after finishing what one would argue was a hearty meal for a 60-pound 9-year-old. First, my mom insisted we take part in the clean plate club for each meal; I believe that’s a consequence of being raised by Great Depression-era parents. Second, she was an advocate of frugal spending when it came to food. To ensure we wouldn’t indulge in overpriced park grub, my mom’s tactic included eating a whopping meal of fast food on the way. For double insurance, she assembled a cooler filled with juice boxes, granola bars, and slimy peanut butter and jelly sandwiches in case of midday hunger pangs. You ate those brown bag champions since Mom would rather you eat dog food than pay six dollars for a hot dog.

With an hour left on our journey, I quietly watched the views from the car window. The calm was interrupted by a tremendous rumble down yonder. And another. And one very loud rumble that resembled what I imagine Ridley Scott tried to emulate during the Alien birthing scenes. Those stomach rumbles were warning calls for an impending disaster--a disaster that surely no humble Accord deserved. I shook my mom’s seat in front and told her I had to go…bad. Also an advocate of not using public restrooms, she shrugged off my request and suggested I wait until we get to the park. Now, as most animals know, when your intestines send tremors throughout your system, they’re not screwing around. And when you’re a kid, it’s imperative to regard that message with high priority. For my second plea, I screeched with an unmistakable sense of urgency. Fortunately, the next exit was a rest stop. My dad pulled the car into an empty spot, and my mom and I ran for the bathroom. I remember situating my cheeks so swiftly onto the porcelain you’d think I reached a breakthrough in magnetic science. I did what needed to be done and the urge was gone. We settled back into the Accord to continue our journey to Six Flags.

Time for some real talk: If your body has ever tried to eliminate something from your system, you may know that one round is rarely the endgame. And, of course, my body was not done with all that McDonald's bullshit. Or just shit—let’s be real. About 15 minutes later, I had that foreboding urge, and that urge turned to desperate need within seconds. I shouted for my parents to stop again, insisting that I couldn’t bear another moment. Unfortunately, the next exit was not for another seven miles, which meant at least another 10 minutes of that feeling. I laid down, closed my eyes, and imagined Ronald McDonald throwing hockey puck-shaped eggs at my mouth while he cackled.

I soon felt the Accord slow its pace; my destination was close! This time, on the other hand, I felt I couldn’t control the surge if I moved even an inch. Not having a penchant for cleaning car upholstery, my mom threw me over her shoulder and rushed me into the gas station bathroom. I don’t remember what happened between toilet and sink contact, and perhaps that’s for the best. What I do remember was feeling exhausted. As a kid, the sort of clenching stamina I exhibited was extraordinary, but it came at a steep cost. We continued our trek up to Six Flags, and I nervously stared out the window dreading another bodily murmur.

As my dad caught sight of the roller coasters on the horizon, the family started to cheer. We finally made it. But I cried. I cried because I didn’t want to be on the road any longer. I cried from the embarrassment of seeing all the strangers during each incident. And I mostly cried because my…you know what was on fire. My mom asked if I needed some medicine and I nodded. We stopped off at the exit before Six Flags to visit the Piggly Wiggly. My dad and I went in; he grabbed me that pink miracle: Pepto Bismol. He gave me a swig and hid the bottle as I insisted on chugging the rest. We got back in the car and just as the enthusiasm for the theme park started to rise again, I silenced it with a resounding “I WANT TO GO HOME!” I was so focused on my discomfort. I don’t remember how upset my parents were—if at all. I’m sure they were OK with not going to the theme park. Although I bet my sister was disappointed. You know, I want to take the blame for that disappointment, but honestly, I think it’s foolish to feed a kid more when they’re already full. You’re on a road trip, and saving a few bucks on theme park food should be a goal not a rule. I mean no disrespect to my mom. We all make mistakes. The repercussions of this mistake would be grand, though.

Because of that day, I developed a fear of traveling in cars. I could handle the 5-minute bus ride to school, but a 10-minute ride to the grocery store or mall? Nope. I refused to travel outside my comfort zone, which included laser precision toilet location awareness. This went on for several months, and I made no effort to free myself from that paranoia.

(To give some background to the next section, I participated in coloring contests—and often won prizes. I recently entered a contest to win a trip to Disney World. That was, of course, prior to D-Day.)

Several months later on an early Saturday morning, I heard the phone ring. My mom answered, and her confused tone hastily turned to excitement. In that moment, I knew exactly why my mom was so ecstatic. She was saying my name, saying the Lord’s name, and thanking whoever Walt was. I was so scared. Mom yelled for me to come downstairs. My heart dropped. I slowly walked down the steps and she met me halfway, shoving the phone against my head.

“Hi. Is this Katie?” the voice asked.

“…Yes.”

“Well, Katie, we here at Piggly Wiggly want to congratulate you on winning the grand prize in our coloring contest for a trip to Disney World!”

 “No. No. No-no-no… NO-NO-NO-NOOOOO!! …Please, nooo-oohoho!” I started to cry, laid down on the stairs, and rolled down them in dramatic 9-year-old fashion. With utmost certainty, I understood my doom awaited me on this 2-hour plane ride if I couldn’t handle a 10-minute car ride. My mom grabbed the phone off the stairs assuring the person on the other end that we accepted the grand prize. Thanks, MOM. I was horrified. I must be the only kid that has heard “you’re going to Disney World” and wept tears of despair. My mom tried to comfort me, but I insisted that the family should go without me and I would never color again. I retired.

With the Disney trip booked, my parents realized they had to break me of my fear or the plane ride would be a nightmare. A month before Disney World, they arranged a road trip to Michigan. Again, I was terrified at the thought of being on the road for 10 minutes let alone five hours. I contemplated running away, feigning illness, calling the police, but settled on hiding in my grandparent’s home. As the family packed up the Accord for Michigan, I slipped out the patio door and ran over to my grandparent’s house (conveniently next door to our home). My grandma answered, and with that, the water works immediately poured as I howled about how scared I was. Being the nurturing caregiver she was (still is), Grandma brought me inside with tender consolation. As I calmed down, I didn’t hear the knock on the door. She went to answer the door, and I suddenly realized it was one of my parents coming to collect me. I sprinted upstairs to the attic, shut the door, and hid in the closet. Muffled voices turned to footsteps that grew louder and louder.

“Kaaaatie!?” my dad yelled at the top of the stairs. “It’s time to go!”

“Nooo, I’m not going! You can’t make me!” Famous last words from a child in hiding. In a matter of seconds, my sanctuary was discovered, and I was slung over my dad’s shoulder. I cried, screamed, kicked, and punched to no avail. My grandma urged him to let me stay seeing my distress. Dad knew better.

“She’ll never get over this fear if we don’t push her. That trip to Disney World is coming up, and hell if I’m gonna deal with this tantrum at an airport.” I was dropped in the backseat next to my sister, and the door slammed shut with a swift click of the locks. I immediately went to grab the handle— “Don’t even think about leaving this car, young lady. You leave, I’ll tie you down next time.” The words put my will into submission and I resigned to my fate. I was going to have to poop on this trip—I just knew it! My mom came around a couple minutes later and placed our dogs, Maggie and Ginger, onto my lap. Their little jumps, sweet kisses, and wagging tails soon had me forgetting all about not wanting to be in the car. So much so, that we were already five minutes away from home. Surely, if two silly pugs can make a five-hour trip, so could I. And if not, I guess I’d go on the side of the road with them.

I don’t remember if I ended up having to go #2 on that road trip. And it didn’t matter. Even though D-Day is the thing I remember most about that one Six Flags trip, I realized the journey to your destination is one small part of the bigger story. You can’t make new memories without taking the risk of getting a bit messy along the way.

My Top 10 Favorite Pokémon Moon Nicknames

I finished Pokemon Moon last month. After completion I reviewed all the Pokemon I would never see again to collect pictures for this list of my favorite nicknames. I think I had a pretty good lineup this game, and there's definitely an unexpected winner at the end.

My naming method is to go with first impression--pretty simple. I'll try to recount where my mind was at the time of selection...

I had to screw with Lillie, one of the protagonist's friends in the game. She kept reiterating how she's definitely not a trainer; as if her stern apathy would make me forget that she was carrying a mystical beast in her purse. Did it seem like our fates were intertwined by this journey? Nope. That was me absolutely stalking a kid. Anyway, Lillie called this bat Nebby, so I was surprised that I had the opportunity to rename it. Well, Nebby became Benny. Just different enough to annoy her.

Obligatory Zelda reference in a non-related game.

This dog looks like a brat. I bet it even gets locked in fridges.

I traded this demon turkey with a fellow trainer, Kate, to get an Eevee. I don't have a screenshot, but I named him Egg Trousers. You can tell this imp chicken abandons bone diapers in the wild with blatant disregard.

Isn't Michael Bolton a bit of a diva? This Magnemite wants nothing to do with that nonsense. This is the cool Mikey B. who has a single screw loose and a 1000-yard stare that confirms it's unhinged.

Obligatory Dave Chappelle reference for Mudbray. I forgot its actual name after watching a video and called it Mudbutt. I called its evolved form Swamp Daddy.

This albino shrub is often found punching slabs of beef in the local meat locker. 

Fearow, be happy I gave you a unique name.

Wow. I didn't know I could be turned off any further than the original Raticate...and then it ate another Raticate.

I thought this was pretty good--7/11 sponsorship with Pokemon Go level good. Then out of curiosity, I went to my old save file for Pokemon Y and learned I was wrong. I thought I was good, but I was better...

Are you messing with me, 2013 Katie? You dropped that nickname so carelessly you couldn't bother to CAPS or space it.

Well, that's the end of this list. Until the next Pokemon game I decide to play!

Unrequited Loves

Lynn,

You asked me the other day if you'll ever find love. Well, I'm here to tell you...I don't know. As I think about love, a few things come to mind: I’ve felt love given, I’ve felt love lost, and I’ve felt love shared. Right now, the only love in my life is the love shared between my family, friends, and you. I…hope that there is one great love waiting for you. I hope that you meet, and you don't have to add that meeting as another loss.

The first time I felt love was in junior high. In young teen fashion, I wanted attention from the boys I had crushes on. It’s worth mentioning that not a single word was exchanged between me and a single one of these boys. Oh, but so many conversations in my head. I remembered the exact time in between certain classes that we would pass each other in the hallway. Always excited to see them, I only hoped they would glance back. If I wasn’t so frightfully shy at the time, I would have said something. I thought they were so cool—surely they had the confidence to approach me if…I…stared at them. Now I know they were probably oblivious to my existence--or knew I was the crazy girl that stared daggers at them as I crossed their paths. Sometimes at night when I went to bed, I would think about my crushes. I would think about us being on an island together or at a dance or at my wedding. My gorgeous self and all these boys starring in various scenarios where they fought over me. I was invisible in real life, but I was the center of attention in my (I promise: innocent in nature) dreams.

Back in those days, the only attention I received from boys and most girls was generally mean. I don't know why. I don't know why the boys in middle school were so disgusted by me. I knew the other girls were prettier, but was I so awful? Granted, I possessed some goofy features. I had a wide gap in my two front teeth--so wide that kids would gesture a field goal at me in reference to the space. I felt so ugly back then that when I received compliments I didn't know they came from a good place. People remarking I had long eye lashes caused me to cut them all off. I received so few compliments from my peers that I didn't know it came from a good place. I thought I had to eliminate the good because that wasn't me.

How depraved, huh? That was junior high for me, feeling invisible among hundreds of my peers. I had a couple friends, not to make you think I was a complete outcast. Outside those select friends and my family, the only thing that kept me company were the characters in video games. I was attached to those games because they were fun, and—I think—because they gave me a meaningful role in the stories.

In high school, I started to garner attention from some boys. I hung out after school with kids that I met through my job at Lifetime Fitness. They went to a neighboring high school and didn’t have the faintest idea of my reputation at my school. These were the cool kids: smoking, drinking, getting into the mischief warned about in teen dramas. I had fun hanging out with them, but they didn’t really know me. I had a few boys express interest in…whatever they had interest in. I won’t play coy and say I didn’t make out with a few of them, but I felt completely out of my element. 

There was one boy, Bill, who had similar interests to mine. He was funny, played sports, and liked video games. I would go over to his house to chat and play our shared hobby. We even double-teamed Zelda II: The Adventure of Link and managed to beat it together. Soon he started to express interest in that thing I didn’t understand: intimacy. Bill and I usually hung out in his parents' basement. One day he brought me up to his bedroom when his parents weren’t home. He wanted to show off his water bed (good lord) and did so by throwing me onto it and landing on top of me. Not only was his action jarring, but a waterbed is the floppiest surface to try and get your bearings on. I remember trying to climb out as he groped my body and wrestled with my flailing limbs. Once I got on stable land, I told him to never do that again, running back to the basement (my safe space?). We had been hanging out for weeks, so this was probably the next step for him. Don't get me wrong: I’m not trying to paint him in bad light. He had previously dropped MANY hints of his interest, his intent. I remember one night as we talked on the phone, he asked me to go outside to look at the moon. It illuminated the sky’s dark veil so brightly. Bill told me that he wished we were looking at it together instead of over the phone. Those sweet words were lost on me. That’s the example I remember, although I’m sure there were other hints. I bet the waterbed fiasco was his last-ditch effort. She doesn’t get the conversational hints, but she won’t be able to ignore the physical hint of my sexy bed! We stopped hanging out soon thereafter. I acted too cold toward him; he finally gave up. I look back and wonder if I wasn’t so closed off to intimacy, maybe we would have ended up together.

I think the one time I truly felt (unrequited) love was during a toxic relationship—my last serious relationship. Merv and I started out much in the way I imagine a great love should. We wanted to spend all our time together; we grew close in a short amount of time. Those whirlwind emotions quickly decayed the first time our expectations differed. I don’t want to focus on those details, but constant fights and disagreements plagued the majority of our relationship. I found myself compromising my feelings, my instincts, to appease him. One night after dinner, Merv walked me to my car. We had been dating about one year at this point. As we stood outside chatting, I felt anxious. I felt anxious to become something that we weren’t and would never be. After one year, I felt that this shit-storm was what I deserved. This was the relationship I chose and I should see it through, no matter how broken I felt as a person. I was no longer myself. I was a shadow that lived to please someone that didn’t accept me. As we stood outside my car, I told Merv “I love you.” I never forced three words out of my lips so reluctantly. He smiled and said, “Oh! That’s nice, Katie,” and laughed...and laughed. I immediately wanted to take the words back. I wanted them back to ease the sick feeling in my gut. Merv told me that he wasn’t ready through chuckles and declarations of how cute and simple I was. He stated that he wouldn’t be ready until he knew he was with the woman he saw himself spending the rest of his life with. OK. That’s fair. You can’t be sure after one year that you’re with "the one." I also didn’t know if I wanted to spend the rest of my life with him. But I wanted to feel something after one year. I felt terrible.

When I got home that evening, I wrote him a note. As much as I want to edit this—forget about this shame--I will leave it as is:

…I don't feel anger. Sadness, maybe. I knew you wouldn't be ready. And still, I said it…

You know, there were many times that I knew, and a few times that I doubted. 

I realized it is love after tonight, because I can wait for you. It's worth it to me. I don't need you to reciprocate. If I felt I needed that to justify my feelings, well, they're not strong to begin with, you know? I do hope I earn your love one day, because unrequited love is...well, better than indifference. But it will grow lonely with time.

And yes, notice I say the word love, because it's not "the word that should not be spoken.” It should be told, again and again because there's not enough in the world to hold it back. I know you. I know that you put a lot of value into words. That the word love is worth so much that you've never given it to anyone. And I want that for you. I want you to realize that it's not a word that has power. It’s a word crafted by experiences, feelings, gestures, moments, actions, sacrifices, and many more words than just that one.

Sweet words, huh? Except the earning his love part—that’s sad for me to read. Two weeks later, I broke up with him. My feelings were very confused—to go from a devoted message to completely severing ties. For all the effort I put into the relationship, I hoped for reciprocation. I hoped for all those things that love meant to me. But he couldn’t give them to me. For so long I waited. I convinced myself after so much emotional abuse** that if I gave him the word maybe his actions would change. Things returned to their usual up ‘n’ down state, and I finally decided to leave him.

After a heated conflict over our shared possessions, I went over to Merv’s place to pick up my stuff. He worked on a last-ditch effort to win me back by saying he didn’t know how to love, but he was learning with me. I guess he forgot about the entire last year of our relationship where I tried to progress, and he resisted or shamed me for trying to commit in more meaningful ways to each other. We never spoke again.

I love my family, my friends, and I believe that love is real. I have dated off and on since then, but never seriously. I think I needed to find my place in the world. Find a place where I love myself. So perhaps the greatest love in this story is not the boys in junior high or the jerks too selfish to understand. Perhaps the greatest love in our lives is to ourselves. I’ve gone through many trials over the past several years, but I believe I’m close to loving who I am—no shame, no imagination, no waiting—just me. 

Lynn, find yourself first. Once you find love within yourself, maybe finding love without won't be so hopeless.

With love,
Katie