Happy New Year, sucktards.

Last year around this time, I blogged about the upcoming New Year and resolutions. (http://sharonandcaring.blogspot.com/2011/01/am-i-last-person-who-actually-cares.html) I came to the conclusion that the majority of people out there were unmotivated ass-clowns who didn’t keep their resolutions for more than two weeks. I decided to neg on you so hard that many of you actually came up with real resolutions to show me up and prove that yes, you could stick to your guns on something. (Ironically, many of you have guns. In my new 2011 mind, I find you that much cooler). 

I am really proud of everyone who I spoke to who said that I ridiculed their lack of drive enough to make a self-improvement promise and keep it for the year. That was my goal in the first place because truthfully, if you were truly an unmotivated ass clown, you wouldn’t be my friend.

Since I am the female Barney Stinson, I cannot brag enough that I kept all of my resolutions from last year, and I am MORE AWESOME because of it. That’s right. I drank over 100 new beers. I cut way back on French fry consumption, and I managed to bike all the way to Harpers Ferry from my house. Now that I did these, I crave for more.

I don’t think the human condition allows us to stay content. Either that, or I personally suffer severe ADHD or fear of contentment. One of my favorite quotes from a poem is “…to stay is to be nowhere at all” by Rainer Maria Rilke. Interpret that as you will, but I think the meaning is clear. If we’re not moving, we’re stuck in nothingness. I always like the push to go somewhere new, and even though I get lost 99% of the time (thanks for the ghetto route in Virginia, Garmin), it’s better than being complacent.

So, once again, I am urging all of my friends to nut up or shut up, and make baller resolutions this year. The Mayans and John Cusack said the world would be ending in 2012. What if that’s true? Fuck TS Eliot, don’t you want your world to end with a bang, and not a whimper?! Here is my new list of 12 awesome resolutions for 2012. Even if the world were to end, just working towards these would make my final days on Earth so cool, I’d be ice cold (like the impending apocalypse).

Finish the entire rough draft of my beer book. For those of you who thought I was just drinking 100 new beers for my own drunken ramblings, I really have a larger plan in place. I am writing a tell-all memoir about all the shenanigans I had with each beer. I’d like to have it ready by the end of the year, so I can have it published in 2013, and then it can be turned into an HBO show. Naturally, Mila Kunis is going to play me. 

we are totally identical! obvi.

Speaking of Mila Kunis, I want to improve my physique. I want to actually improve my exercise and maybe get abs. I know my body is too small to have a six pack, but maybe a two-pack is doable. 

I want to lower my mile time by a full minute. So I am comparable with the Kenyans and can vie for the Olympics.

Be nicer to Alex Orr, even though he probably doesn’t deserve it. Stop laughing at his cocktails and actually try them.

 Learn skeet and trap shooting. Furthermore, improve my accuracy with handguns and shoot more rifles.

Learn how to drive stick. I’m going to need some help with this one. Specifically a friend with a standard car. Who is patient. And won’t mind me making immature car puns. That’d be clutch.

Try to stop biting my nails.

 Travel to the West Coast. 

Actually complete my stupid one night stand project so I have a usable piece of furniture that I've successfully stripped and stained. 

Go camping. For realsies. None of this Girl Scouts bullshit.

Sing in public more. Get better at singing. Well, realistically, don't get worse. Also, drink less at band shows/practice. Maybe just shows. 

 Broaden my skills at work—whether it be figuring out how software and hardware work, or getting published somewhere else.

There it is, ladies and gentleman.  My list of gangster resolutions for 2012. Join me in the quest for an amazing year and make your own personal suggestions. I’d love to hear them. I’m a shit-getter-doner, so failure is never a possibility for me. I am going to try so hard, my resolutions will be diamonds by the end of the year. Shit or get off the pot friends, 2012 is the year to fucking make something of yourself.

Raising Hell for the Holidays

Last year, I wrote about the winter holidays and how Christmas was that much better than Hanukkah. This year, taking a page out of the Republican candidates, I’m going to flip flop on this issue. Christmas sucks too. I know the actual holidays themselves are nice once you’re celebrating them (especially in Atlantic City, like I will), but the weeks leading up to the winter holidays are terrible.

all i want for christmas are new candidates.

I hate how parking spots have become endangered species in shopping plazas I want to buy just groceries at. I especially hate how most people wearing Santa hats are disproportionately grumpier than people not wearing Santa hats. I hate the increase in traffic EVERYWHERE, including idiot drivers on the Beltway and dumb pedestrians. I hate how everyone decided to save all of their shopping to the final days of December and I really, really, hate how I am one of those procrastinating individuals. Usually I have my shit together but this was one year where I fell behind.

My friend Dani and I are unfortunately those annoying Type-A people. You know, those people who do the entire group projects rather than let our incompetent colleagues even contribute. Because if we do it, then it will turn out right. Dani is so Type-A that she actually named this blog entry before I wrote it. She seems to be on top of her gifts so well that she’s even buying extras, just because. For once, I hate Dani’s organization because it’s making me look like a slacker.

Arguably, one of the worst parts about the holidays is wrapping presents. It’d be great if everything I bought could tuck nicely in a rectangular box or bag. Just like everyone is painfully unique, all of my presents seem to have more faces than Mount Rushmore. I don’t want the message to come across that I don’t love everyone I’m buying presents for, I literally just don’t like everything about the process (besides making you happy).

Since I’m cheap as shit when it comes to disposable things, I naturally go to dollar stores for wrapping paper and gift bags. I know I take a leap of faith that these items don’t contain lead or mercury. Obviously, I do like saving money. What I don’t like is how each dollar store looks worse than a looted store in New Orleans (yeah, I went there.) For some odd reason, people who buy items at the dollar store, ranging from pregnancy tests to toilet seat lids, don’t seem to care about etiquette. They will not pick things up they drop, will return things to the completely wrong place if they don’t want it, or leave their half-drunk Dr. Pepper bottles on the shelves. Actually, everything about dollar stores involves everything in the wrong place.

I had to deal with people buying 5000 plastic reindeer ornaments in front of me to the guy hogging the aisle with his shopping cart full of mechanical pencils and place mats. I don’t understand how everyone could possibly need this much stuff all at once. Like most things in my life, I like to go in and out without making too much of a mess. I shouldn’t let dollar stores piss me off that much because I’m saving an average of $2-3 per item, so that should be comparable to the pain and suffering I’ll endure. The place smells like the inside of a shoebox from Payless mixed with a mediocre buffet. I just hope that stench doesn’t linger on me. I just go in, breathe through my mouth, and suck it up as I buy my questionably procured items from what looks like Santa's forgotten basement of crap.

I just feel that there needs to be a lot more courtesy this holiday season. We’re all stressed out because we’ve saved the people we love to the last minute. Now, on top of our shitty feelings of shame, we have to battle with idiots who can’t park straight and nimrods who decide to take all of the blue, red, and green tissue paper and leave the orange. Why the fuck do I need orange tissue paper? This isn’t Halloween.

Thanks a lot for the anxiety, Jesus. Your birthday is one party I wish I could skip the invitation for this year.

When Facebook makes me Facepalm

Jim Halpert: Yes. I am the popular social networking site known as 'Bookface'.

Let’s face it, we’re all addicted to social media. No, social media is a fancy way of saying ‘stalking the shit out of people’ or ‘making ourselves seem more important than we really are’. I’m the first one to admit I fully check out the Facebook pages of people I went to elementary school with and haven’t spoken to past 7^th grade. SHE got a DUI? HE got fired from his job at the supermarket? What do you mean SHE’S in Mexico City? What were her parents thinking? Facebook is basically the way I get to judge everyone’s decisions from the comfort of my own Macbook (and yes, I judge you if you don’t own a Mac).

One of the biggest items I judge/spend the most time  on Facebook is the incompetence of my friends. I know I’m skirting a very thin like by insulting you guys. I mean, without you, I would just have a stupid website no one reads. Still, I’m ready to out one of my biggest pet peeves—people advertising how dumb they are when it comes to the ‘new’ Facebook. I was talking to my friend John about this last night, and he asked me if I got the new Facebook yet.

First, I had to back track and recall what new even meant for Facebook. The layout has morphed a decent number of times since I first obtained an account on the ‘book. I did enough mental math to realize that my Facebook changed just a couple of months ago, and therefore, was no longer ‘new’. There must be something on the horizon. Yet, further research/stalking proved that just because it didn’t happen on mine, some friends were showing previews of the new timeline. I’m okay with technology changing. After all, we need it to beat the Soviets and to keep Apple in business (hello iPad 2S) Anyways, I told John that no, I hadn’t seen the new Facebook officially on my page but some friends had the layout. John asked me what I thought.  Here’s how our lovely conversation last night went:

‪John: I'm having fun creeping on all the old posts people have written me

‪me: it looks intuitive

‪John: It's fun, I like it

‪me: i feel like people are going to bitch for a week

  

and i'm like

  

stfu [shut the f up]

I could just yell at you guys for not embracing technology as well as John does. He’s using this new timeline to inflate his already-awesome person by remembering how awesome he is on Facebook. I personally use Facebook as a self-esteem boost because each of those thumbs up to something I’ve done is another smile for the day. Or, a post on my wall from a friend shows that I’m important enough to take time out of their day to share a thought with me.

While I schedule an appointment with my therapist for narcissism, I’m going to go back to the other thought. I know that my Newsfeed is going to be cluttered with status updates about hating the new Facebook, that you just don’t get it, and my personal favorite, “facebook, WHYYYYYYYY?!?!!?!?” If I wanted to broadcast that I didn’t understand something, I’d write ‘math, WHYYYYYYY??!?!??!” or “WTF is up with this Iowa caucus and why is Newt Gingrich taken seriously?”. Those are valid updates.

However, I’m going to see friends who I know are smarter than me complain that they can’t use an interface that was designed in 3^rd grade history. My friends, I love you, but I don’t want to hear about how your life is ruined because you won’t be able figure out where your pokes went or where your personal tag is hiding. If you truly cannot discover how to use the new Facebook within an hour, save yourself the humiliation and read a help page (https://www.facebook.com/about/timeline).

No one really wants to hear about your difficulty because we’re all adjusting to the same goddamn site you are. Just because the layout is new, doesn’t mean your selfish inadequacies are novel. Or, you can just advertise that you’re a disorganized moron on your status. I’ll be the one laughing at you. From my therapist’s couch. For being narcissistic and a sociopath.

But at least I’ll be right. 

Happiness is a warm gun, and I love a good bang.

The unthinkable happened to me over the weekend. No, I didn’t grow taller. I also didn’t publish my beer book. Even more unbelievable—I complained that gun laws in Maryland were too strict. I can hear my mother writing me out of her will now.

Let’s back up for a second. What am I doing in the same place as a gun? Shouldn’t my blood be liberal blue? I’m supposed to be the type of person who’d rather harpoon a whale than shoot a water pistol. Just because I have a legal right to own a firearm, doesn’t mean I should actually do it! (That being said, I’ve also taken advantage of many of the amendments, specifically voting and celebrating repeal of Prohibition. Although I wouldn’t mind quartering soldiers in my house, even if it isn’t war time).

Still, it got to the point where I was so hung up on guns that I realized I didn’t actually understand what I was against. My good friend Stephen was going to show me the light. As a Republican who owns guns, I’m surprised that he puts up with my hippy bullshit about welfare. While it wasn’t blatant pressuring, Stephen encouraged me to just try a gun out, even if I just held it. So, I decided to bite the bullet (no pun intended. You actually shouldn’t do that. There’s lead in those), and actually try shooting a gun. So we ventured to a place I’ve mocked for years—the NRA headquarters.

I was nervous. I kept thinking about people who go on shooting sprees. I imagined some mentally unbalanced person who had a vendetta against curly-haired girls in the lane next to me. Worse, I was terrified I was going to shoot myself in the shoulder. When we pulled into the parking lot for the NRA range in Winchester, Virginia, I almost told him to turn around.

The range looked very clean, and with the exception of muffled sounds of gunshots, it didn’t appear to be a place where one would shoot guns. I had to take a test to become range-certified. When I read through the material, I was surprised at how logical shooting a gun was. The NRA was so hung up on safety that it was willing to kick out people acting like jackasses. I always assumed the NRA was full of jackasses shooting up logs, but this place had more rules than a courtroom. How responsible!

After passing the test and getting a range card, we were ready to shoot. Stephen brought a Glock 19, your standard handgun. We were given eye and ear protection and targets. I was nervous again. I knew I was safe, but I had no technique. I was now scared I’d misfire and shoot Stephen. Plus, inside was much louder than outside. I kept jumping every time I heard a gun went off, which meant my feet were barely on the ground before I was airborne again.

Anyways, I was instructed on stance and aiming. I took the safety off and held the Glock for a couple of seconds. I was shaking a little and my aim was off. I squeezed the trigger and felt the small recoil. I didn’t even hit the target but I didn’t care. I was so relieved I actually did it and nobody died that I put the gun down. Stephen applauded me, but told me there were 9 more shots in the magazine. So I went through the motions again, and shot. I think I hit the paper. And then I shot again, and again. It was captivating. The recoil went through my arms right to my lady parts. I loved it. I am proud to say that from 15 feet away, I can seriously maim someone with a handgun.

I didn’t shut up about shooting for days after I went that first time. I flashed my non-NRA member card to everyone. I had dreams about shooting. So, I went again. I was armed with my friend Dani and Stephen’s roommate, Marc. Marc also owns guns, so our arsenal was expanded. This time, I shot a rifle with a scope.

I’ve only been in love once, but that was with a human. Rifle love is serious. There is so much trust involved. I felt that rifle in every fiber of my being. Looking through the scope was like touching the soul of a cherished being. The rifle looked so big in my tiny hands that I appreciated its awesome power. I couldn’t load it fast enough. I was ready for more

I imagine this is what I look like shooting a rifle. 

Enough gun pornography. Dani and I are both currently suffering from gun fever. I’ve Googled gun laws in Maryland and rifle prices. I am looking for gun shows nearby. I know I’ll never own a gun, but I still can’t stop. I want to feel the smooth rifle in my hands again.

I know that based on this same logic, I should probably try heroin or cow tipping, since I’ve never experienced either. After all, how can you be against something if you’ve never done it? I guess I’ll get a tattoo now. I’m not into those slippery slope Republican arguments (sorry Stephen). There’s a very good reason why gun laws are as strict as they are, but I’m at the stage in my life where I’m glad they aren’t illegal (sorry Mom).

Here’s how this is going to end. I’m going to chalk guns as one of my expensive hobbies, but not something I’ll do everyday. Like my love of rock climbing, Panera, kayaking, IMAX movies, and skiing, these are all costly activities that I will do occasionally but never more than that. They will lose their special aura if I did them all the time, and then I won’t be able to pay my taxes. Although, since most gun owners are against taxes, maybe I’ll fit right in. 

Sentimentalism is for pussies, or why I won’t be attending my high school reunion

After a whirlwind weekend in Chicago (pun fully intended), I find myself back in my home state of Connecticut. Despite my bag’s desire to be fashionably late by two hours in Hartford (Southwest has received a scathing e-mail), I am ecstatic to be back. Promises of road races, drinks, turkey, and foliage await me. Yet, there is one thing that I am not looking forward to: my 5 year high school reunion.

my high school graduation--they shouldn't let people who raise the roof with diplomas into college. 

Let’s look at this for a second. First of all, it’s only five years. Many people I’ve spoken to have said that this miniscule amount of time is not worthy of a reunion. Surely a ten year is more appropriate (yes it is, and don’t call me Shirley). The most any of us have done in five years is possess an undergraduate degree and have a job in a field that isn’t necessarily what we set out to do in the first place. If we’re lucky. Best case scenario, the reunion will be full of people bemoaning debt for their expensive, worthless degrees that their minimum wage job won’t pay off until 500 years from now. I’m smug though, because this isn’t me. Therefore, why do I need to pay entry to a restaurant to hear people that once proclaimed Harvard Law on their horizon, now complain that their job isn’t using their degree in polisci. It’s depressing.

I know what you’re thinking. I’m a horrible person who somehow got lucky and found a job she liked, so she’s thinking she’ll be ‘nice’ and spare everyone the anxiety of seeing how rich and fabulous she is. What a bitch. While all of this is true, I’m not going for those reasons. I’m not attending my 5 year high school reunion because I hate the past.

George Santayana famously wrote, “Those who cannot remember the past are condemned to repeat it”. Considering I already have my high school diploma, I highly doubt that not remembering it will rescind that honor. That’s not what I’m getting at. I don’t see the point in reminiscing in this small chapter of my life. Sure, I had a blast in high school. I was painfully average back then. I had great friends, decent grades, a date for prom, and a smattering of extra curriculars that somehow got me into a pretty good school.  I was lucky—I wasn’t bullied, hated, or had anything really monumental happen to me. My point is, what do I really have to remember that I already don't?

Thanks to Facebook and phones (with Facebook), I keep in touch with my friends from high school. The best part is, I don’t have to keep in touch with those I don’t want to. I can hide people from my Newsfeed or just unfriend them entirely. I sound like a bitch again, but just think about it—how often are we forced to reminisce about things we don’t want to, or worse, just don’t need to?

Life is short. I’d rather foster great relationships and build new memories than remember mundane things I can’t change. Painful memories suck, but innocuous ones are wastes of space and time. I guess I don’t see the point in dredging up how many times I struck out in JV softball or how I was the second dumbest person in National Honor Society. It wasn’t all bad, but isn’t it so much better now? With all due respect to Bruce Sprignsteen, if your glory days are behind you, you’re not living right.

I am planning to see my best friends from high school this Thanksgiving week. I will not be paying a cover at a mediocre Mexican restaurant that I never loved in the first place, to see people that represent something I can’t change. The truth is, I do value important parts of the past and have a memory that unfortunately never lets me forget anything (movie/TV quotes and dating histories especially).

All I’m saying, is if we did friendships right, we don’t need a reunion. High school is over, and if the point is to see what everyone is up to—call those people if you really care that much. I’ve done all of this, and as a result, I’m going to spend Friday night in with my family, playing Trivial Pursuit and Scrabble. Seeing this past sentence, perhaps I wasn’t as popular in high school, if I think this is a valid Friday night.

I am extraordinarily patient, provided I get my own way in the end

 There’s this commercial on TV, I’m not sure if you’ve seen it. It’s for this business called JG Wentworth, one of those ‘need cash now’ businesses. Basically, it is for people with shitty credit to get more money by selling their birthrights for money to pay off bills. That’s what I gather.  Anyways, the premise of the commercial is that there is a bunch of people shouting out of windows, in operas, or on streets “It’s MY money, and I want it NOW!” (One of the commercials can be found here http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HX0fIi3H-es) It always pissed me off, because you had your money, you spent it irresponsibly tinting your car windows instead of paying off your electric bill. Why should you get more money, (that’s not yours) to fix your cruddy mistakes? Since when is money lent to you at a 7000% interest rate yours, and why are you entitled to it?

Usually, I think instant gratification is ridiculous and indulgent, like supersizing for a quarter more at move theatres. I like waiting for things, like my immigrant ancestors from Ellis Island did when they came here. Nobody handed them anything. However, there are some things I don’t think you need to wait for. I’m talking about unsubscribing from e-mail newsletters and other spammy subscriptions. If my ancestors knew America was full of inane Internet publications with ads for Viagra, they would have stayed in the Ukraine.

I somehow got on eBay’s Daily Deals list serv. I even said out loud, “Fuck this shit, why am I going to bid on shit I don’t want? How did I even get on this crap?” Instead of rapidly hitting delete with my agitated right index finger, I aggressively scrolled down until I found the ‘unsubscribe’ button. You can give a man a fish by deleting an e-mail, but if you don’t want to get laden down with shitty fish listservs, you unsubscribe. Finally, I was beginning to hit a level of Zen. I would be free to reach a new stage of enlightenment: an inbox free of earthly junk.

e-mail surveillance from sikhs on ''the office'' is the way to go.

As if. eBay promptly told me that my request to unsubscribe would take 10 days to go into effect. Seriously? Is their entire messaging system run by morons using an abacus and notecards? As in, they’d have to look through stacks and stacks of cards to find me, and then destroy my card over a small fire? No, this is the 21^st century. Why the hell does it take TEN WHOLE DAYS to just electronically delete me from a system. It takes me less than 10 seconds to delete my full name in a document. Now I have to deal with your worthless e-mails that I didn’t even want in the first place for ten more days? It’s my inbox, and I want it now! Worse comes to worse, I’m going to declare OCCUPY GMAIL and demand that 99% of the e-mails are worthless and should not exist, unless they’re willing to work.

Additionally, I had this same problem with Comcast. Besides their terrible, soul sucking service, they were just really incompetent with their finances. When my previous roommate Clyde tried to change our cable plan from his name to mine, they said it would take up to three billing cycles to go into effect. THREE MONTHS? I could have mastered a scrapbooking class or sustained a marriage with Kim Kardashian in the same amount of time it would have taken Comcast to update their database with a name change.

There’s no excuse for technology to be as good as it is, and suck as much as it does. We can watch movies in the palms of our hands, have electronic health records and have robots build weapons, but we still deal with nonsense.  Nobody likes shit work, but if technology is the great facilitator, why am I still getting e-mails from Papa John’s? I only ordered their cardboard imitator of pizza once, and I’ve unsubscribed the same number of times that grotesque cuisine gave my heartburn.

A woman doing math? Burn her! She’s a witch!

the limit does not exist!

Despite my ardent disbelief in germs, they’ve proven their very real existence to me once again. Being sick gives you a chance to slow down and regroup before the torrent of the unfortunate ‘real world’ sweeps you back up again. I’m using this time most productively to focus on breathing without coughing, catching up on Mad Men, and reading the news. As I grow weary of watching Don Draper bang yet another blonde, I switch back to CNN.  I’ve given up on MSNBC after one too many Middle East inaccuracies and you can’t honestly expect me to watch Fox News. So, I stick with CNN because Anderson Cooper makes me swoon.

Like many of us, I’ve been following the Occupy Wall Street protests with some keen interest and with the proverbial grain of salt. While I too don’t like how greedy some of the big businesses are, I also don’t like how a bunch of people can protest without a unified message. Now, I’m not the most logical person in the world, but I try to at least know what I’m talking about. I mean, let’s face it—I’m a moron who hates whales and vests, but at least I back my shit up. I don’t teeter with my message but come at it with a force stronger than a Republican veto for helping the homeless.

Anyways, I’m baffled by which percentage I supposedly belong to. I’ve seen those pictures of people holding up handwritten signs declaring their allegiance to the other 99%, the 1%, the 53%, the 2% (if you’re a dairy product), the 6% (if you’re a decent beer), among others. Now, I’ve been terrible with math ever since I learned you can’t divide by zero. That just doesn’t make sense to me. In my mind, if you divide by zero, it’s the same thing as dividing by one. If 40 cookies are divided for one person, then 1 person gets forty cookies. If 40 cookies go to zero people, then the 40 cookies still exist. Nobody gets to eat them. Math makes me sad.

I feel like we’ve been categorized as percentages our whole lives. Just think about it. I remember doctors telling me I was in the 5^th percentile for my height and weight, for my age. As in, 95% of the population for my age was taller and heavier than me. Statistics just make you feel diminutive. Now, maybe I’m just unlucky, but statistics have only made me feel worse about myself. You never feel worse about yourself than you do when you’re applying for college. I have to be top 15% of my class? I had to get ‘this’ percentile on my SAT scores? Whatever, I somehow managed to get into University of Maryland, earn my BA, and land a job. And with this, comes scrutiny. Now I need to ally myself with the percent again.

I’m charged by social change. I love that our country allows for protests of government and other displays of inequalities. Yet, this Occupy Wall Street is baffling to me because I’m not sure where I lie. I don’t have a job in the financial sector, and definitely don’t make enough money to be in that elusive 1%. Yet, is it wrong for me to aspire to that? I’ve dabbled with thoughts of Communism and Socialism and see their respective draws (plus, in Soviet Russia jokes are hysterical). Still, the major flaw with these forms of government is their lack of competition. If we’re all supposed to be equal, then what’s the push to move forward? I’m not saying I don’t view each person as valuable to this planet (Boston Red Sox excluded), but don’t people need drive?

I’m ticked off that oil companies get richer and small business close. I do believe in higher taxes for those making more money, just as I fully expect to pay a shit ton of taxes when my novel takes off. But that’s just the rent we pay to live in this great country. I don’t view the drive to succeed as a bad thing. I feel as though this Occupy Wall Street movement is punishing those who want more. Is it greedy if I’ve earned it?

I don’t fully understand their message (I’m sure most of them don’t either), but it’s not realistic. We all want change, and I agree the economy is rough. Jobs are scarce and I have countless friends who are eagerly looking. I can blame a lot of people for the economic mess we’re in, but I’m not going to waste my time. I’d rather just be good at my job than sleep outside for weeks carrying a sign for a movement that promises zero job security. When it comes down to it, you do what you have to do to pay the mortgage. I took that from Thank You for Smoking. Maybe it’s time people took their own initiative and stopped playing the devil’s game of mathematics. Just do your shit. It’s not like we use math in the real world, anyways.