1200 words

"Good Night"

As I travel the hilly path of this stable sidewalk below me, my metal shield keeping the cold from gripping my bones, I think to myself this party better be worth it. I branch off from the guys for a bathroom break in the back alley of a building. Out of all the illegal things students do at OU, public urination will be the act to land you in the back of a cop car. As I release my bodily fluids I look around me. My mind takes a pause and stops to think that kind of thought that only comes when your mind is free as a result of the massage Captain Morgan is giving your brain. This would be a horrible place to be in the midst of one of your enemys. I zip up, meet back up with the guys and continue my travel to our destination. What a great valentines day this will be.

As I see more and more traveler's on the same drunken journey I am taking, thee excitement starts to set in on my already impressive feeling body. We arrive at the party, and it's full to the point that even the yard was even being invaded by random people the owners of the house have never seen, and probably will never see again. The first thing I see when I get into the party is a friend of mine in my math class, name oblivous to me at the time. I bob and weave through the what seemed like a million people to the kitchen. 7 cases of beer lay on the ground, all empty. How depressing I think to myself. I know this night will end one of two ways, from past experience. I will converse with a beautiful girl, get her number, and be satisfied I became more than just some guy at a party. Or I will not, and drink even more as to not think about how option one hasn't occured. At this moment it dawns on me that a very pretty brunnette with blonde highlights is being harassed by two guys standing not more than 24 inches away from me. She has an illumanting glow that lights up that filthy kitchen, like a light bulb in a damp creepy basement. Her smile is amazing, her personality complimenting it even more, because she had an amazing sense of humor. She looks like the type of girl you can watch sportscenter with on a sunday, and she's the one I say to myself. Now when I say harassed, I don't mean verbally or physically. Harassed as in they we're hitting on her, and I could tell she wasn't having it. Then the magic eye contact happens. I look at her and squinch my face up into that look you get in akward situations. This shows her that I feel her pain, and I'm two seconds away from taking it as a damsel in distress call. Two seconds away from pulling her up on my white horse and riding away.

No more than two seconds later, I give her the come here finger, and she steps in between the two guys with happiness, leaving upset, hateful looks on there faces. I don't quite remember exactly how the conversation went. It was a good one though. Her name was Eaven, the name of a goddess, and I was feeling like Hercules. I got her number, left the party, and went to Goodfellas to top off my night. The thick juicy pizza always making the long walk home a bit easier. I get home, throw my good clothes in the dirty laundry, and commence into chill mode and reflecting on the night with my roommates who have their own set of triumphs and tribulations. When this ritual is over, it is reflect on my life time, to the beautiful sound of hip hop in the background of my thoughts. It's about 4 o clock a.m now. This night was different however. I played a song I'd never heard before, which is rare, called "Letter to B.I.G". Hearing the melody of the beat was like love at first site. It automatically made me think of my brother, and how I hadn't gotten around to writting a song for him yet. I would write it to this beat. This would be my masterpiece I think, as a fade away into darkness. Fade away before all the pain and madness I had thought I washed away before brutally lets its presence be known again.

"Bad Night"

It all starts with the curling of my toes and the rubbing of my feet against each other like reticulated pythons, the anxiety in my body having no other way of expressing itself. This action never stops at night, but what will determine if I have a bad night is if that's where the anxiety stays. It doesn't though. The green lights on the cable box read 2 30 in the morning. As I lay on the cool leather of the couch, I look around my brightly lit living room to the other couch, and its emptyness. Visions from the past play in my mind of all the fun nights me and my brother had in this very room, staying up all night watching t.v. Now it is just me, in this empty, quiet room. It's starting to happen. The anxiety creeps up my legs and I have to sit up. It goes from the wiggle of my toes to a full blown leg jitter. Tears start to stream down my face and cries of sorrow escape my mouth as a rock back and forth. All the memories of a past life ripping through my brain and wrecking my present state like a tsunami. My mom is upstairs sleeping. I don't explain to her this nightly routine that I know all to well. She has enough on her plate, and to add to the constant worry about me would be selfish on my part. So each night this fear induced insomnia takes its heavy toll on me uninterrupted. Fear induced because the hour of chaos is coming up. 3 o clock is when I lost my other half. 3 o clock is the anti-hour if your religious, which is when the demons like to play. 3 o clock exactly is when I woke up screaming from the all too real nightmare three weeks before this night. I haven't slept right since. 3 o clock is when my panic attack hits its climax. When I feel tingles in my face from crying so much and the anxiety and stress is to the point that I dig my fingers into my head, wishing it would stop. I'd give anything to calm down right now, but i know this is a wish that only a genie could grant me, and there is no magic lamp in sight. Thirty minutes later this madness hits a calm. However, sadly, this is the calm before the storm.

Post traumatic stress disorder and insomnia is not the bulk of my problems. I go upstairs and lay in my moms bed, quietly so I don't wake her. If you want to know what clinical depression is like, imagine putting your head into a tourniquet, a turning it until it gives just enough pressure to make your brain numb. This numbness causing silent, heavy tears. Not the dramatic cry like earlier in the night. This cry starts with a knot the size of a golf ball in your throat, but this knot doesn't go away. It's a constant pressure, like a hand with skinny, long fingers gripping your neck just loosely enough so that you can breath, but uncomfortably so. I stare at the snow flake patterns in the white ceiling above me, listening to my mom breath heavily. "Lord help me", is the only thought that passes through my battlefield of a mind. That, and what will end this pain. "The mind is a terrible thing to waste". The founder of this famous quote is unknown and unimportant to me at this time. At this time, my own revised version of the quote is all that matters. "The mind is a terrible thing, especially when it wants to waste you".

**there may be more added on to this in my actual memoir. I haven't decided whether I want to dive any deeper yet.

Running in the Family 60-100

After reading pages 60 through 100, and discussing the first part of the book in class, my outlook on it isn't as bad as before. I realized there was some really good context that I hadn't picked up on because of the difficult reading in general. Now that I know to look harder though, this time around, reading was more enjoyable. I felt like I got to know the author more and how he chooses to teach us about himself through his stories. Especially through the series of poems he chose to put in the book. One that really captivated me was the poem  "Woman like you". This shows us a side of him he hadn't portrayed yet and how he  could view a woman. "Women like you make men pour their hearts out"(pg. 92). This line interested me the most because I know exactly what kind of woman he's talking about

We also learn more about his native island in this passage. The animal life, the different island kept traditions like all the poisons, the vicious heat and the roll it plays, and overall belief's the island native's have. "that was my father who had come to protect his family" (pg. 99). This statement shows that the natives believe that people come back as animals, which is interesting. Family history comes up in the passage of Ondaatje going to a church over 300 years old and discovering all the different Ondaatjes that had been married there or preached there. The author took a lot of pride in this fact. One of the last things we learn about the author is some of his childhood and past experiences on the island. He used to throw the eggs of the kabaragoya at the "Royal" students at cricket matches. And that his first memory is that of a National Museums publication. 

Overall Ondaatje went from talking about the older men in his family first, and is now coming closer to him. The structure of the book seems to be as if he's starting the readers off by telling us about people and stories that aren't as directly close to him, and as time goes on we get closer and closer to him. It was a decent 40 pages of reading and has restored my faith in hopefully finding enjoyment in reading the book.

Recent Story and Descriptions

Descriptions
Zach Collins- is a great, 20 year old outgoing guy. Baby blue eyes and big muscles, yes ladies he's a stud muffin. Has had so many blackouts he doesn't drink without a flashlight. A big great bundle of testosterone, drunkenness, and good times.

Patti Burton-the most caring, strongest person I will ever know. 52 years of age, but looks 30. You can see the daily struggle she goes through in her baby brown eyes and long, dramatic hair, but would never be able to tell through her hyper, almost in need of Riddlin personality.

Torrence Hatch-the weight of his world has mad his legs strong. Keyword being his world, because he does not know much outside of the hot ghetto of south side Baton Rouge, Louisiana. A 23 year old diabetic with a lot to say about what he has learned in life.

Recent Story

As I travel the hilly path of this stable sidewalk below me, my metal shield keeping the cold from gripping my bones, I think to myself this party better be worth it. I branch off from the guys for a bathroom break in the back alley of a building. Out of all the illegal things students do at OU, public urination will be the act to land you in the back of a cop car. As I release my bodily fluids I look around me. My mind takes a pause and stops to think that kind of thought that only comes when your mind is free as a result of the massage Captain Morgan is giving your brain. This would be a horrible place to be in the midst of one of your enemys. I zip up, meet back up with the guys and continue my travel to our destination. What a great valentines day this will be.

As I see more and more traveler's on the same drunken journey I am taking, thee excitement starts to set in on my already impressive feeling body. We arrive at the party, and it's full to the point that even the yard was even being invaded by random people the owners of the house have never seen, and probably will never see again. The first thing I see when I get into the party is a friend of mine in my math class, name oblivous to me at the time. I bob and weave through the what seemed like a million people to the kitchen. 7 cases of beer lay on the ground, all empty. How depressing I think to myself. I know this night will end one of two ways, from past experience. I will converse with a beautiful girl, get her number, and be satisfied I became more than just some guy at a party. Or I will not, and drink even more as to not think about how option one hasn't occured. At this moment it dawns on me that a very pretty brunnette with blonde highlights is being harassed by two guys standing not more than 24 inches away from me. She has an illumanting glow that lights up that filthy kitchen, like a light bulb in a damp creepy basement. Her smile is amazing, her personality complimenting it even more, because she had an amazing sense of humor. She looks like the type of girl you can watch sportscenter with on a sunday, and she's the one I say to myself. Now when I say harassed, I don't mean verbally or physically. Harassed as in they we're hitting on her, and I could tell she wasn't having it. Then the magic eye contact happens. I look at her and squinch my face up into that look you get in akward situations. This shows her that I feel her pain, and I'm two seconds away from taking it as a damsel in distress call. Two seconds away from pulling her up on my white horse and riding away.

No more than two seconds later, I give her the come here finger, and she steps in between the two guys with happiness, leaving upset, hateful looks on there faces. I don't quite remember exactly how the conversation went. It was a good one though. Her name was Eaven, the name of a goddess, and I was feeling like Hercules. I got her number, left the party, and went to Goodfellas to top off my night. The thick juicy pizza always making the long walk home a bit easier. I get home, throw my good clothes in the dirty laundry, and commence into chill mode and reflecting on the night with my roommates who have their own set of triumphs and tribulations. When this ritual is over, it is reflect on my life time, to the beautiful sound of hip hop in the background of my thoughts. It's about 4 o clock a.m now. This night was different however. I played a song I'd never heard before, which is rare, called "Letter to B.I.G". Hearing the melody of the beat was like love at first site. It automatically made me think of my brother, and how I hadn't gotten around to writting a song for him yet. I would write it to this beat. This would be my masterpiece I think, as a fade away into darkness. Fade away before all the pain and madness I had thought I washed away before brutally lets its presence be known again.

Running in the Family

After reading the first 69 pages of this book, I can already tell I'm not going to like it very much. Maybe I'm not giving it much of a chance already, and hopefully that changes. So far this book is really hard to keep up with because it's all over the place. It's hard to even quote a passage because it seems like there's only a couple passages that actually stay on the same subject for a page or two. It's also really hard to understand because it takes place in another country. All the references to things and places are over my head as a result of this, so its really hard to relate or have interest in what the author is talking about. The Liars' Club and Fathers, Sons, and Brothers, the setting was in America so the places and events were relatable because I actually new what they were. On the bright side, the actual text itself is well written. So well written that it makes it harder to keep up with. When you read an author's writing you can some what get a sense of their personalities, or can imagine them as people sitting right next to you telling you the story. I can imagine the author of this book as a well educated, sophisticated individual. Overall, I'm not finding too much interest in it so far, but hopefully it will get better as a move along and it's just a case of getting used to it. We'll see.

Footsteps of a Generation

Life can be pictured as a field of snow. No matter the path we choose to walk to get to our destination, we will always leave footprints. The people that walk behind us can choose to follow our footsteps, or branch off and make an entirely new path. In Fathers, Sons, and Brothers, Bret Lott analyses the similar paths taken throughout his life by each generation of men in his family. These paths being taken unconsciously by those walking them.

When a father looks down on his offspring, how often does he find himself reminiscing on his childhood, because he sees himself in his son? Bret Lott does it often. "That pinch was entry into our childhood: my arm around him, our smiling, is the proof of us two surfacing, alive but not unscathed . And here are my own two boys, already embarked" (pg. 32). This is the first, of many situations in the book when Bret portrays the footsteps of him and his brother being walked by his own sons, Zeb and Jacob. Jacob had just accidently slammed Zeb's fingers in the car door. This sent Lott's mind racing to the past to a time when his brother Brad had first pinched him by a pool one day. It is interesting because Jacob and Zeb are unaware of the similar situation they had just partaken in. They are already walking in the footsteps of their father without knowing it.  One of the biggest examples of this phenomenon is when Lott overhears Zeb whispering to Jacob. ""Jake, don't tell Dad," Zeb whispered, and it seemed Swear to God you won't tell ought to be the next words I would hear" (pg. 163). He associates these words directly with the memory of his older brother Brad always telling him not to tell his parents something he did. A direct example of Lott watching his sons follow in the footsteps of him and his brother. Even the role of youngest and oldest correspond to each other."Jacob is me, just trying to make my way in the wake, for better or worse, of big brother Brad." (pg. 160)

Lott's sons aren't the only ones following in the footsteps of their father. In the chapter "Uncle", Bret describes the relationship of his Uncle Lynn to his father. "His tongue naturally stuck, and it had been my Uncle who had discovered him in the freezer crying, Lynn laughing a good five minutes or so before he went to get warm water" (pg. 57). Obviously his Uncle wasn't very concerned over the issue of his Dad's well being. The same lack of concern is displayed by Lott's older brother Brad. "But Brad only stood there, the basketball by his hip, while the kid sat on my arms and punched me in the chest" (pg. 155). Once again, the oldest in the two sets of brothers are following in each others footsteps. The youngest, falling victim to the carelessness of their older brother. Is this trait reoccurring only in the Lott family, or families all over the world? Whatever the answer may be, it's obvious that Lott's family has a habit being more similar than they would like, or care to acknowledge. 

Lott's life probably has the most in common with his dads, especially when revolved around the company of RC cola. ""Bill used to by my salesman," he said, and looked down, hands still on the glass, head still shaking." (pg. 181) This to me is the most powerful evidence in the book of following in the footsteps of the men before you. Out of all the different paths Lott tried to take in his life, he ended up for a brief time period doing the same exact thing as his father, even selling products to the same exact person his father used to. Lott followed in his fathers footsteps even to the point of something as little as what to keep in his garage. "Thats it for my tools. Like father, like son." (pg. 10) The real question is how things work out to be so similar between generations. How much of it is consciously done by the father? How much of it is pure chance? Lott does describe instances where he, and his father, tried to distill some quality's they had into their sons. Lott recognized this as his fathers intention."And I have no doubt he imagined for us, later in our lives, careers with the company." (pg. 183) Fathers definitely have a huge impact on how their sons turn out. If a son is following in his fathers footsteps, and is old enough to see how, I think it's a result of taking in the habits his father has. This transformation happens unconsciously at a younger age though. Until it reaches a peak and we can sit back and realize how much the apple doesn't fall far from the tree. 

Those are my thoughts on the subject. However, this isn't about me. Lott doesn't really give a direct opinion on the cause of this trend between fathers, sons, and brothers. What he does do, it take it all in, and enjoy it to the fullest. Something we should all stop to do once and awhile. If Lott didn't take these moments in and analyze how they intertwine with each other, I believe this book wouldn't have been the great book it's considered today. As a younger generation with many negative stereotypes, maybe we should stop to see who's footsteps we are following in, and who's footsteps we should be.

300 (soon to be 900) Words

After reading Fathers, Sons, and Brothers, I see the bigger picture of the text and what I believe Bret Lott wanted us to get out of this memoir. One of these ideas is that if we stop to take in the simple moments of life for what they really are, we'd find a better overall satisfaction in these moments. "Though she does not know it yet, the view from here is the most beautiful gift I can remember Melanie giving me..."(pg 149). Lott's simple trip to the island would be one of the most fulfilling  simple things in his life, considering the fact he chose to put it in the book. It also interested me how he chose to write about it. It seemed as though Lott was in a dreamlike state throughout the trip. The images he saw, and the thoughts that went through his head at the time. All of it seemed as though it was a surreal feeling. "Still as though in a dream, the old man raises his hand to me, and I feel my hand rising of its own..." (pg 146). Did Bret Lott want to imply to us that this experience seemed to good to be true?

Another thing that sticks out to me about the text is the once again unique parallelism Lott displays by going back and forth between generations in the instant of a new paragraph. One of the central ideas that I believe is being portrayed is that one way or another, the boys in a family follow in each others footsteps. The way he transitions back and forth from the generations makes this easier to see. ""Jake, don't tell dad," Zeb whispered, and it seemed Swear to God you won't tell ought to be the next words I would hear." (pg. 163). Lott's older brother Brad put him in this situation numerous times as a child, and here Lott's oldest son Zeb is putting his younger brother in the situation. Another example of this is how Brad didn't help Bret when his friend was beating him up on the basketball court. He's not very protective of him. This reminds me of Uncle Lynn, being older than Lott's dad, and how he laughed at him for 5 minutes when his tongue was stuck to the walls of the freezer.  He wasn't very protective either. Overall, I believe these common attributes in generations are shared by all family's in one way or another. I never really thought about it until reading this book, though. 

One more thing that sticks out to me about this book is the simplicity of the writing. This simplicity isn't bad however. Not only does it make the book an easy read, but in a weird way, it speaks more volumes of how great the book is because of the aspects of family the author presents in such a simple text. No hard metaphors and imagery to understand like in the The Liar's Club. Just simple, good writing, and I love it.

Thesis Statement

In Fathers, Sons, and Brothers, Bret Lott intertwines stories of his family to convey the bigger picture that sons eventually walk in the same footsteps of their fathers, and brothers, one way or another, at a certain point in time.

The Role I Play

"When you find yourself at the end of the rope, tie a knot and hold on"-unknown. I guess you could say the role I have in my family now would to be that knot. To understand why, you must know some background information. My family consisted of me, my younger brother Garrett, my mom Patti, and my 93 year old grandma Almeta. We all lived in the same house together. I have a Dad also, but don't get to see him as much. My grandma just had a surgery to get a huge tumor removed from her stomach on May 13th, 2008. May 13th is also my brothers birthday. The doctors didn't expect full recovery. They said "this surgery will only extend her life about 6 months". She's in a nursing home as you read this, still immobile, but alive. The surgery is when I started to take on my role as the knot of my family. I remember the exact night the pain started to transform me into it. About 3 days after the surgery, I had just gotten off work around 11. It was a school night, and I went to see my grandma in the hostipital. Walking in her room and seeing her laying in that bed turned my stomach upside down. The first thing I noticed was the gigantic blue and black bruise on the inside of her wrist. I remember the anger building up in me at the thought of it, because I didn't know how it arose at the time. Later I would find out it was  from the needle the nurses tried to stick in her arm numerous times because they couldn't find the vain for the IV. I went to sit next to her. She's sleeping, "thank god" I think to myself. You don't feel pain when you sleep. I find out I was wrong about that later, because I found out some nightmares are too real. That's another story however. Five minutes later the nurse comes in to check on her and wakes her up. She's surprised to see me sitting up next to her, but was suffering from extreme dementia at the time, so our conversation didn't go so smoothly. Then, out of nowhere, she lets out a moan of pain. I knew the effects of the surgery were kicking in now that she was awake. Moan, after moan, after terrible moan. I go to the hallway hoping to see somebody that could help. It was empty. So I go back and hold her hand. Tears start to stream down my face as I sit there listening to her  cries of pain. At that moment I prayed to God for him to stop this pain, and give her the strength to get through it. Told him at that moment that I'd give anything if he just gave her enough time to see Garrett graduate high school. That's when the role of a helping hand and a backbone landed on me. The good thing about this time was that I wasn't the only one. Me, my mom, and my brother helped each other. Soon I wouldn't have that privilege.

Fast forward to the end of the summer. I'm not going to go into details about my brother's murder, or the effects it has on me, only the role it made me play. He was 16 and had been a junior for only 3 days of high school, in case you were wondering. My mom has one sister that lives in another state, our grandma, and me. Now that's the only family she has. Me being her only son, and the only person living with her. I became her backbone, and she became mine. Me and my mother went three months without telling my grandma, for fear of what it would do to her mentally. She was immobile in a nursing home, and Garrett was like her best friend, me being the some what rebel of the family before. She was already on her possible death bed, and we were worried that if she found out this would be motivation to give up. Countless times, I had to be there when she asked where Garrett was, and hold my moms hand when she lied and looked away. "He's at school mom", or, "He's working". The day we finally told her, I had to be there again to support my mom. I couldn't take it and left the room. We got through it though.

The point I'm trying to make by now is the role I play with all the importance in the world is support for my mom. Not to get too personal, especially on a blog site, but she probably wouldn't even be here today if it wasn't for me. Just like a week ago I remember our conversation."Mom, I got an A on my exam". "That's so great Georden". I hear the tears coming in her eyes through the phone. "I think that the only reason I even wake up day to day is the hope of you going to college and succeeding". What she doesn't know is the only reason I'm probably succeeding in college is for her. Well, my grandma, and the rest of my distant family I don't have much of a relationship with too. My brother would be the biggest influence. I have to make him proud. My mom however, is the most important, because my brothers at peace. My mom still needs me everyday. 

The role I play in my family is the backbone my mother needs. The knot at the end of the rope to hold on to. The hope that there's something left to look forward to, in this cruel, terrible world.

600 Word Revised

It's apparent to me by now that in Mary Karr's The Liars Club, she uses imagery in her writing that have more to them than the actual image itself. There are many examples of this, and because of that fact, I wanted to pick two examples that I believed would be less obvious than others, and hope that I stumbled onto something big. "We all see the same shit, just through different eyes", to quote one of my famous musicians. I would also apply this quote to Mary Karr. What stuck out to me was the theme of white hands in times of tragedy. The owners of these limbs having the life some what metaphorically sucked out of them, for one reason or another. With the life, went the color.

In a memoir, what an author recollects of an experience is key. At a young age, something must really stick out to be remembered in such detail that Karr does. "Then out of all the darkness I see Mother's white hands rising from her lap like they were powered and lit from inside. Like all the light in the world has been poured out to shape those hands. She's reaching for the steering wheel, locking onto it with her knuckles tight. The car jumps to the side and skips up onto the sidewalk. She's trying to take us over the edge" (138). Mary's mom is nothing short of an emotional train wreck. Throughout the book being represented in many occasions with the "Nervousness". How she got to that point is an argument in itself. The fact remains though that she is. With that being said, being mentally unstable doesn't just happen on its own. It's a result of the things we go through in life, and the things that have happened to us. Whatever the case may be in Mary's Mother's life, I believe that each trial and tribulation sucked a little piece out of her at a time. All of these things building up, and hitting a climax(even though worse things happen later) at the point where Mother reaches for the wheel. She wanted to kill herself and her family. In my opinion you must be lifeless on the inside, or void of any good emotion's a normal human being should experience. So Mary describes her hands as being "powered and lit from inside". That's a very white glow. White being colorless. Colorless being lifeless, in a book that uses a vast majority of colors to describe many situations and emotions.

I don't know how much experience the average person has with death. Once you meet get introduced to it however, especially if it's on a blind date, it's capable of taking complete control of your life and ripping out every piece of normal you thought you once knew. "But there was another hand from that time that also got seared into what I can remember. It was the hand of Bugsy Juarez's wife. It was covered in flour one morning she came to our backdoor. She pressed that white hand onto our damp breakfast table while she said to Daddy, please come quick, Bugs shot hisself"(174). I don't know much about Mrs. Juarez's state before this incident. I do know, that if your husband kills himself, and you loved him, you would lose a part of yourself forever. You would also lose your color, in Mary's child mind frame at the time. Let's think of the importance of hands to this particular child. Numerous times throughout the book Mary looks to hands for comfort. A steady hand to hold onto and to guide her through the tremendous struggle she sees as life. However, sadly, hands have also violated her more than once, and have been the reason for some of her psychological disfunction. For a child that finds comfort in 5 fingers and a palm, pale white hands would have lost their warmth and power, and would stick out to her. This would certainly be the case for Mrs. Juarez. It wouldn't be far stretched to assume that the suicide of her husband left her morbid, and to a child that looks to hands for comfort, morbid and emotionless is no better represented than by the extremely white hands that now occupy the place where instruments of warmth and comfort once were.

Mary Karr has seen an abundance of tragedy in her life. In her childhood, she painted pictures with her mind, as a child often does. When using color to describe the things and experiences she encountered, the same color that is used to describe ghost in society can't be good. Coincidentally this color usually being emphasized in terrible situations in Karr's mind. This is why I have chosen to believe that the color white represents tragedy and lifelessness in Mary Karr's mind. Hopefully I have convinced you to believe the same.