But it seems I kind of enjoy "Death Metal". I have no idea what this means. I suspect I just like the scruffy white tattooed pierced boys that Death Metal bands seem to attract. All I know is I had fun and I left work wanting to fuck some ass.

In case that title clue wasn't obvious enough, we just finished a two night appearance at the club (No Lucy, you can't be in the show.) by none other than the (now) legendary Donny Osmond! It was an experience, to say the least.

First, Donny looked great and his voice was in fine shape. He's taller than I expected, just under or around six feet. Remarkable, as I've been stunned at how tiny certain celebrities actually are. Ronnie Spector, Stephanie Mills, Cindy Lauper, even Janet Jackson are just peanuts, really. Even pop stars like Nick Lachey and his brother Drew are pocket-sized in real life. They border on dwarf-like. I'd still fuck him.


Donny and his people were super-Mormon-nice. They were probably the first band who's hospitality (backstage rider) included absolutely no alcohol. After the second show, instead of exiting the building through the "celebrity exit" Donny and a couple of his people casually left through the club and out the front door, thanking the assembled wait staff on the way out. That's the first time I've seen that happen.

And as nice as they were, his fans (some of them anyway) were fucking freaks! I swear, both nights were sold out, and they added a return engagement in May. This wasn't unexpected. When my own relatives read on the web that Donny was booked they asked my if I "was excited". No. But my god, we had people lined up halfway to 42nd St. yesterday by 5:00. Today, when the opening manager arrived at 10 am there were 30 plus people already waiting. For Donny Freakin' Osmond! We had people waiting in the restaurant both days from 2:00 on. We had at least 5 menopausal women break down in tears for various reasons today alone. True story: My doorman was in or near the backstage area last night. A certain woman was attempting (unsuccessfully) to get backstage access to get an album cover (that's from when music came on big vinyl disks - I swear!) autographed. Although he's not supposed to, my doorman took the album cover back and managed to get Donny to sign it. So greatful was the woman she generously asked what she could do in return. Thinking she meant money, he respectfully declined. Upon learning she meant giving him a blowjob he embarrassingly declined again. At a Donnie Freakin' Osmond concert!

And here's something that happened tonight, actually for the second time in as many weeks. Although tonight it was a woman and last week it was a man. They both arrived late in the seating so they were brought out to the tables on the far stage left. Both times, they were late enough to not get prime seating but early enough to score decent seats. And both times that was impossible. Because they both had a big fat ass. I'm not saying they were heavy. They were. I'm saying they had big fat asses. Freakishly big. Normal big heavy bodies and then abnormal big fat asses. Like a normal fat ass and then an extra ass-and-a-half tacked on. They had such big fat asses that it made seating them at a table for eight or ten impossible as you needed seating for nine-and-a-half or eleven-and-a-half. So both times we were forced to seat them at the back of the worst seating available because no one else would be wanting to sit there which worked out, because with a ginormous ass-and-a-half there was no room anyway. In our defense, we didn't put them in the worst seats. We attempted to seat them normally and both times they drifted over to the least desirable seats on their own. But it begs the question: I know we've turned into a dangerously obese country. I know that as a gay man I'm obsessed with my appearance and would rather cover myself in honey and sit on a fire ant hill than get that fat. But my god, how do you get to the point where your ass is so big that it adversely affects your life, that you can't be seated at a concert, that you spill over into the next airplane seat, that you don't walk across a room you waddle, and you don't do anything to fix the problem? You're fat. But you're not just fat you have a freakishly life-altering fat ass. Fucking fix it! I have lived a life of risk and excess. The dealbreaker everytime is when I can't do what I want to do. When I can't go where I want to go. When my indulgences impact the rest of my life I discontinue my indulgences. Put down the cookie your ass is enormous!

In any case, my boss did a Good Cop/Bad Cop on us last night and spent four hours berating us about how the tables were dirty and things needed to be bussed. She was nasty and relentless. You haven't lived until someone is screeching in your ear at a decibel only dogs could hear. I assume she believed that it would motivate us to roll the shit downhill. Instead it was further proof (for me) that I have a sucky job.

I was having problems with my PC. Hotmail appeared to be down all day yesterday. Plus I've been tweeking my system. And I've been been downloading some "illegal" shit from The Internets. I'll give you one free (legal) tip courtesy of PCWorld magazine. Google search Learn2 or follow the link here. The free sidebar is the shit. You get a Outlook Link as well as quick links to your Calendar, Tasks, Notes as well as quick launch buttons to Explorer, Mozilla and most other installed browsers. More later ...

I finally decided how to best use my tax refund money. I opted to forgo buying a new laptop for now. My current work schedule leaves me precious little time for coffee shop writing. Instead, I made a large payment to one of my many credit cards and bought myself a much longed for new digital camera. It's a nice upgrade from my current digi. I bought it because of the user opinion comment. "Compact, easy to use, versatile." Exactly how I describe myself! Now I'll be able to take much higher resolution pictures of my cock. Your's too, if you're interested.

So I didn't really manage much in the debauchery department on my birthday but I covered drunken nicely. That is, if you don't count when I walked up to the bar at The Slide, practically hypnotized by the massive uncut hard cock on the almost naked Latin go-go boy. I tipped him 5 dollars, told him he was "beyooful" and ran my hand down his chest and felt up his hard-on. That's the extent of the dick I got. As it got later I was sort of worried because I had to wake up in time to open the restaurant at 10 am, which is the equivalent of most of you getting up for work at 3 am. I confess, after completing the East Village tour of Nowhere, The Pheonix, Urge, The Slide and finally Dick's (with a stop to fuel up at The Dumpling Man on St. Mark's, GO!) I don't really remember how when or why I got home but I did make it to work more or less on time.

I was a little apprehensive about my roommate's leaving town last month. I was a bit afraid of being left alone as I was feeling a tad fragile. Besides, both men leaving me alone hits the abandonment/rejection button I've integrated into my psychological tapestry. Surprisingly, an unexpected result of this is the very clear realization that I don't want to live with them at all anymore. And it's not a they suck sort of thing. It's an I don't want to live with anyone sort of thing. I want my things left where I put them. I want to clean the toilet and not have someone piss on the seat the same day. I want to go in the fridge for grated cheese and have it be there and not used up and not replaced. I want my house to be my house alone and I don't need to share my space or compromise for people that quite frankly, ain't fucking me or getting fucked by me so why am I constantly pissed off and feeling used. So I've started shopping around for a studio or one bedroom to buy. Besides the obvious investment rewards I want to have my own place all by myself with no Hellcat and no Ex and nobody to fuck up my plans or cock block me or treat me like I don't matter or turn on the kitchen faucet when I'm showering.

I've been searching and searching for an online pharmacy that I found a year or so ago that will fill prescriptions with just an online "consultation". I finally found it today. Yay! Xanax, Ambien, Viagra, Oh my!

Every year since I turned 40 I've decided to use my birthday as an occasion to make a change. The first year I quit smoking. The next I had an HIV test. That worked out well. Anyway, this year I've decided to quit my job and find another. I've had the chance to honestly asses what's going on and what the future may hold at my current job. I'm not making enough and while I may make more, it will still be on the low end for the size of the venue. I get no health insurance and I never will. I get no 401k investment and I never will. There's the freaky you work in a restaurant but can't eat thing. I work in a smoke filled tiny office and that won't change. The bad far outweighs the good and I'm simply not working in a healthy environment. I need to see it for what it is and walk away. I'm bright, capable and I have a lot of experience. There's a better opportunity out there but I won't find it if I don't look.

So tomorrow I start looking.

Bear with me as I'm a tad tipsy. I reserve the right to make editorial changes tomorrow after I get up. And when I get up it will be officially my birthday. It's my birthday today at midnight, but I don't consider it tomorrow until I sleep and get up. Last year I posted a note, a blurb if you will, stating indirectly it was my birthday. This year I will be more overt. And not for the desire for gifts or even attention (although some well intentioned good wishes would be most appreciated). Previously, as I've gotten older, I more or less stopped celebrating my birthday. I began to see it as one step closer to death. And in the youth obsessed, gay culture I'm a part of (like it or not)every tick of the chronological clock made me (at least in my mind) less desirable to the mainstream. Getting old and being gay is so not cool.

However being HIV+ has colored my attitude towards celebrating my birthday. I have had no major health issues traced to being POZ (several minor ones, though). I have, however been even more mindful of how random, how fragile, how temporary this existence on this plane can be. And the weird thing is I already knew that before my diagnosis. It's not like I wasn't aware that you can be walking down the street and have an air conditioner fall out of a window and crush your skull. It happens all the time. Life's a crapshoot. At best. I've experienced too many losses of friends and family. Some have made sense. Some have been sudden and horrible and unfair.

The upshot of it all is that The Duchess has issued a decree from her castle high atop Second Avenue. Henceforth, we shall be celebrating the year of our birth. In light of my medical "condition" and because the alternative is not celebrating at all, I hereby decree February 19th a holiday throughout the land. I've taken the day off from work and while I'm missing the Aaron Carter "performance", I will hopefully make up for it with filthy gay sex and drunken debauchery.

A reader left a comment on a recent previous post asking me why "they didn't give you anti-virals to wipe the viral load to undetectable?" That's a great question. And rather than answer in the comments section I thought I would talk about it here. As it pretty much relates to the original reason I created this blog. The start of which was when I was first diagnosed almost two years ago. As therapeutic as it's been to me to have an outlet for my thoughts, feelings, hopes and fears, I've also always hoped I could give out good information as well as chronicle my experiences as an HIV+ individual. As I don't see this virus going away any time soon, I'm hoping others will be able to use some of the information I post to make their experience a little less scary, a little less lonely.

Having said that, I guess now's as good a time as any to discuss HIV meds and the onset of treatment.

The CDC as well as most HIV care providers have a set number as of this writing where treatment is recommended. I believe the current CD4 (Tcell) levels are at 350 or below. Viral load is a trickier subject as (a) It's an inexact science and varies from test to test and (b) there's a certain amount of disagreement as to how much viral load is too much and should be treated. There are other factors as well. Some people are in a relationship with an HIV- partner. While there is no proof that those with an undetectable viral load can't pass the virus on to a partner, many people opt to eradicate (theoretically) the viral load in their bloodstream in the hope of making transmission less likely should an accident (broken condom, etc. ) occur. Some people are just so totally freaked out by the virus that they insist on treatment immediately regardless of recommended procedures. If your perceived quality of life is being impaired by having a live deadly virus in your bloodstream or it is more than you can bare, have at it then.

Still, I'm mindful of the fact that despite advances in treatment options, and more on the way, HIV meds can kick your ass. Depending on what you're taking and in what combination, you can experience dizziness, nausea (as well as unexpected vomiting), headaches, neuropathy and an over-all lack of energy. Lets not forget psychological side effects, irritability (although who could tell with me) and the always popular unexpected diarrhea.

Part of me is still reacting from the old-school AZT era when I and many other people knew that treatment basically equaled poison. That's not really the case today. And I'm already taking anti-anxiety meds daily, "super crazy" meds as needed (it's been weeks) and testosterone therapy for my previously mentioned rock hard 8 inch cut cock (pictures available upon request), so it's not like I'm medication averse. The key for me is how I feel. And normally lately I feel fine. Not sick, not tired. Not unable to hold down a job or my lunch. I sleep well and am always hungry. What exactly would I be medicating for? But that brings me to another issue I haven't talked about. I'm contagious. I have live active virus in my bloodstream right now. My blood could kill you. So could my cum. That freaks me the fuck out.

Enough for me to start meds? Well no. But it's coloring my entire life. I prefer to "hook up" (ha!) with HIV+ people. It takes a layer of pressure off me. I don't really date. When someone who's sero-status is unkown to me starts to flirt, I might play for a bit, but when it comes down to it I end up walking away. I'm unwilling to risk disclosing my status only to be rejected. And not disclosing my status is not an option. Unless whatever encounter I'm engaged in is totally safe. If we're in the same room and watching some porn and jerking each other off and shooting a load on my belly well, my being HIV+ is irrelevant. The cum rag doesn't care.

Although apparently I do.

I have "a thing" about hairy feet. I admit it's "a thing". It grosses me out. I hate hairy feet. My feet aren't totally hairy. But I do grow hair on a few toes and the top of my feet. And I hate it. Well, hate is a bit strong but I don't like it. Aesthetically speaking I mean. I look down after a shower and I'm all, ewwww. But I'm usually at the gym or pressed for time. I'm a last-minute shower and skate kind of guy.

So late last night as I was puttering around the apartment taking care of this and that I took a few minutes to freshen up my hair color (I'm a Feria Brazilian Brown #51) and take a hot shower (which was heavenly in and of itself, by the way). After which I took a minute to shave my toes. I seriously doubt anyone will ever see it much less notice. But I feel better.

The Hellcat came home late last night after I went to bed. He cooked something, I can't tell what. But whatever it was it took several plates and every single frying pan I own. Which he left dirty in the sink and on the stove. I've stacked every dirty pan and dish he left outside his bedroom door for him to trip over when he starts his busy day this afternoon. Around 4 pm I expect. Oh, to live the life of a jobless meth addict.

Well, no boyfriend to speak of. So I didn't get any chocolate or candy. Which is cool because I prefer a bag of pistachio nuts anyway. Still, it would have been nice to get my hole tickled. Maybe next year.

Oleta Adams did two shows in the club tonight (No Lucy, you can't be in the show). The first time I ever heard her version of "Get Here" I cried like a fuckin' woman. Shortly after she went on stage for the first show I peeped on her set list sitting on the sound board. Get Here was second last. I didn't cry. But it was fucking beautiful. She covered First Time Ever I Saw Your Face. The lady has some lungs. And she still looks fantastic. Her second show was almost completely different. But she still did "Get Here" again. I scored a couple of seats for The Hellcat and a friend of his. So I tucked in to the table with them when she repeated the number. The hair on my arms stood up and while I still didn't cry, when she brought the audience to their feet half-way through the number, I knew I was in the presence of a true artist.

Although it's not for another week, I got me an early birthday present yesterday, in the form of the results of my latest blood work. I was dreading my Dr. appointment yesterday as my last one didn't go well and the possibility of putting me on HIV medication had been raised. In the interim, I had managed to resign myself to the possibility. But I was hoping it wasn't going to be the case. My hope based on the fact that after a rough winter, I have truly been feeling pretty good of late. Not for nothing, but after 40+ years in this body, I know what's what inside, and I was girding for a fight as I was planning to insist on more tests before I agreed to start HIV meds.

Turns out, I was right. My cholesterol, liver, kidneys, blood pressure are all normal. My blood sugars are fine. I'm not anemic. I don't have syphilis. I repeat: no syphilis (I'm just sayin'...). Apparently, my body is truly enjoying the testosterone replacement therapy, as my free testosterone levels read at 241 (up from 30). Anyone wanna fuck? We talked about cutting my dosage in half but I think that I've finally adjusted to the increase and my irritability has gone back to my normal level of always mildly irritated. But the aggressive, and horribly dark mood I was in seems to have passed.

Most importantly, my TCells have rebounded nicely. I got 450 of the little fuckers. Right back where I was in August of last year. The only hiccup in all of this is that my viral load tripled to 170,000 (give or take), but my doctor and I both think that based on the other test results, this is just a spike that should right itself. The viral load test in and of itself is an inexact marker anyway. Just to be sure, I did another viral load test before I left.

The upshot of it all is that I got prescriptions for continuing the testosterone replacement (to maintain my rock hard 8 inch cut cock, ... I'm just sayin'...) and the anxiety meds (at the current levels, with no increase, as feeling moderately nuts seems normal for me).

It's not time for the HIV meds for now. I'm OK. I thought I was OK, but it's nice to have proof.

I walked out on the pier at Coney Island. There was a film crew out there shooting something. Judging by the lack of on-set support (no trucks or catering to be found, although they did have quite a bit of equipment) I would say a low priced independent film. Definitely a step above a student guerilla shoot. Either way, I'm sure I would never see it anywhere. Hardly memorable or a good photo.

What I did find remarkable were the fisher... err, people I encountered. They were younger and older and male and female. Some had fishing poles but many did not. Most had equipment consisting of some fishing wire on a hook wrapped around a Coke can. Coke being the preferred can of fisherpeople. I don't know why. They would bait the hook with meat or cheese or even bread sometimes and fling the fishing wire over the pier. Then they'd watch for a hit and reel in the catch. I didn't see anything caught larger than three or four inches so I have no idea what kind of food it becomes, but many of them had buckets full of fish.

The boys pictured above are checking out a crab trap. The trap looks like a lettuce spinner. The bait is again chicken but whole pieces. I'm assuming it's chicken they got free or from the garbage but it's raw. I can't imagine it's cost effective to buy the chicken to catch the tiny little crabs I saw them hauling in. Also, I can't imagine that the fish and crab caught along the shore of Coney Island are necessarily safe to eat, although I have to say the beach and boardwalk were spotless on this day.

Still, the boys seemed to be having a delightful time playing with raw meat and funny looking pinchy crabs and fish flopping around on the pier. There's that squeal of discovery and delight that only seems to last until one is around five years old or so, that never fails to bring at least a tiny smile to anyone's face. If you're lucky.

Why am I channeling Little Mary Sunshine?

Mix one part home maintenance with one part self indulgence. Add a pinch of on-line fucking around and stir in a satisfaying masturbation session. Bake at 400 and serve when cool.

I woke up earlier than expected considering I got home from work at 4:30 am. I was travel ready by about 1:30 or so. I headed for Bitch, Bath and Beyond, Bitch looking for a cigarette fan for the office at work. I'm pretty sure I'm quitting but not until I find something else. So I need to adjust my environment to suit me as best I can for now. I got a little sidetracked and bought myself some dearly needed socks and underoos at the Old Gravy. At the BX4 I picked up a kitchen soap dispenser, some bathroom grouting supplies and some Oxyclean spray. (Glamorous, I know.)

I headed back to my castle high atop Second Ave. I eagerly prepared to try and repair the grout around the tub as well as one of the plexiglas panels in the bathroom door.

CHRIST! this is boring!

I did some home repair. Then I went shopping. I got a brand new winter coat on sale. There's a big clearance sale going on right now at Filene's Basement. Go! Get a winter coat off-season for next year. Half price!

I went to the gym and shaved my balls and hole in the shower. A man kept staring at me. Like nobody else shaves their balls and hole. I'm kidding. Sort of.

I cleaned the bathroom. I cleaned the kitchen. I repaired the loose panel in the bathroom door.

We have mice. I set out poison and glue traps. I intend to kill the mice. PETA be damned. If I catch enough of the little fuckers I'll make a mouse vest from their skin. Or at least gloves.

I did my part. Just now.

More gay penguins.

Talk about keeping your word.

I put my tax return in to my checking account. Feeling flush, I proceeded to pay the current bills. I paid the rent, cable bill, phone, Con-Ed (electric) and a credit card payment. The result? I had about 50 dollars left. Granted, that doesn't include my current woefully substandard paycheck. I have money in my pocket and am in no danger of starving but I really wish I was making enough that money was again an afterthought instead of an obsession. To achieve that I would have to go back to bartending. I'm not sure I'm willing to do that. I quit bartending because I thought I was too old. But I miss the flexibility I had in my hours and I really miss having plenty of available cash at all times. Last night I had drinks at The Pheonix. Seeing the staff they had hired, I'm definitely not too old to be bartending. I just need to find the right bar. It's not lost on me that I could make the money I'm making now, working 50+ hours a week, working 3 nights in any decent NYC gay bar.

Still, I had a nice couple of days. My "good head" seems to be holding. Work doesn't seem like a big scary place anymore. It's just work. I had to put my foot down and smack down a couple of unruly employees yesterday. I hated being in a position that they forced me to be in, but I stepped up and stood my ground. I think I got their grudging respect.

I want to post some audio and video files. Any suggestions using Blogger? I'm cleaning out my old drive getting it ready to be used as storage. I've found some good stuff to share.

Home from work at 2:10 am. In bed by 2:30. Up at 5:45 am. Showering now to be on the subway, back to work by 6:30 am. I'm scheduled to be off around 11 pm. I hope they allow me a morsel to eat at some point. This job is good why?

I was dreading having the kids take off for Cali and leave me alone. I've been in such a precarious mental state of late, that I was afraid of just being with me, only. Turns out it was just what I needed. I didn't just survive it, I thrived. I had plenty of time to be alone with my thoughts and consider where I am and what is really and truly going wrong. I had a chance at several self counseling sessions. A skill that has come in handy over the years. I'll probably expand on this post in the coming weeks, but suffice it to say I had a bunch of moments of clarity over the last few days, and I'm finally feeling better. Stronger. And very much more peaceful. I know what I need to do now.

On a completey unrelated note, several fellow bloggers have printed shots from this photoshoot. Apparently, if you're closer to 20 than 40, this qualifies as hot. I guess he grew pubic hair or something. To which I say: eww, shave! In any case, he'll be performing at The Club (No Lucy, you can't be in the show) on Feb 19th. That's my birthday.

In what can only be described as a model of remarkable efficiency, the state of New York has seen fit to send me a check for my tax return only a week after filing it. And it's much more $$$ than I usually get. Hopefully, my federal return isn't far behind but regardless, if I want to, I can go ahead and order that laptop I was eyeballing yesterday on EBay. Or plan that well-deserved vacation. Or pay off another credit card.

Awww, spit. Knowing me I'll blow it all on hookers and beer.

I have a series of pictures along the wall of my kitchen. They are various sizes and all black and white. Most of them I've had for years. Among them: Two children side by side alone on a beach. A solitary figure in a park dressed in black against a white winter backdrop. A man with a cello walking alone across the Brooklyn Bridge. So I guess it's no surprise that I was compelled to snap this shot last year on my visit to Coney Island. I got plenty of shots with plenty of people. But this one appealed to me. Thing is, I just noticed the variations on the theme last month.

With a late-night voddie. I slept in today.Then I rolled over and slept some more. It was around 1:40 in the afternoon before I clicked on the "morning" coffee. I was tired from work and the temperature in my bedroom was perfect. The blinds were down and the humidifier was making a white noise barrier to the New York City traffic below. The result: merciful great big gobs of sweet sweet slumber.

How did I spend my weekend, you ask? Well, technically I'm having my weekend now as I worked on your weekend. Aside from enjoying having the castle high atop Second Ave. all to myself (as my kids are both vacationing in Cali), did I throw a wild orgy where I bottomed for six latin tops? Actually, I re-glazed my bathtub ... *crickets*. Yeah I know. My life is pretty damn exciting. Still, I tried everything to restore the porcelain in my big old claw-footed bathtub. I scrubbed, I bleached, I soaked and nothing worked. My white tub always had a grey veneer and I was constantly obsessing (imagine that) that anyone looking at it would assume it was dirt. Actually, sometimes it was. While I mistakenly and foolishly turned The Ex on to the wonderful world of hot baths, I failed to explain that the last five minutes of any hot bath needs to include the bather wiping all the human flesh and soap scum that gets left behind. And The Hellcat seems to assume that when he (frequently) grooms his facial hair, once said hair is off his body it magically disappears and doesn't trail down the side of the tub. Both for me to clean, apparently. But I digress.

So I found this way cool stuff one afternoon on an aimless search of my local hardware store. I do that every once in a while. Just wander around a hardware store (or lately, now that we have one, the Home Depot) and look at stuff. Just to look. You mix can A into can B and wait an hour. A chemical reaction takes place in can B and you brush the liquid on to your tub. Repeat the next day after storing the can overnight in the freezer (to slow the chemical reaction and extend the life of the product). The result is supposed to be a new porcelain finish on your tub, tile or sink. But there's a catch. You have to let the finish cure for 5 days before you use it. The obvious problem is how do you put a shower out of commission for five days for three people. You really don't. So when I realized that both my kids would be away from the apartment for an extended period I searched my mental "To Do" list and the tub restoration seemed the obvious choice. I'm pleased to report it really, really works. The first coat had me worried cause it looked kind of crappy but the second coat covered beautifully. My bathtub is now white and shiny and well, beautiful. How ironic is it that I think I decided that I want to move out?

I have an internet acquaintance by the name of Mak. He's having a problem with on the job smoking. I feel that pain. In the manager's office at The Club (No Lucy, you can't be in the show), half the managers smoke and all the bartenders do. The bartenders are frequently in the office cashing out. I can be in this tiny little room sometimes with three other people. All smoking. I quit three years ago, so the smell of smoke doesn't offend me per se. But I quit for health reasons. And this was before I was diagnosed HIV+. It really bothered me right before I got sick from a cold. Before I realized that the cold was making me feel like crap, I was afraid it was the second-hand smoke and was considering quitting my job. I still am. There is no way realistically I can take a stand against the smoking. Even though it's completely illegal, if I try (and succeed or not) I would be the most unpopular person there by far. In general, I've fallen in with a very unhealthy bunch. Between the lack of food and the closet-sized smoke-filled manager's office I'm forced to work in, everything I've done the last few years to live a healthier lifestyle is in danger of being un-done. If I let it.