Three Simple Syllables (Another Asexual Rant)

Am I a relationship nightmare?

They tell me that men hate commitment but love sex.

What do I want? I want your soul, but you can keep your pants on.

“You know you’ll never get a date if you keep up with this whole ‘asexual’ thing.” Yeah, I know, that’s kinda the point.

It’s strange, though, letting go of the idea that I’ll fall in love, get married, buy a home, have 2.5 kids, raise them, and retire with the man of my dreams. I’m not the first one who has done it, and I won’t be the last, but somewhere it feels like letting go of a piece of my soul every time I say, “no, I don’t really care if I get married or not.”

I don’t think I’m sad about losing this bit of me though. It seems like a superfluous bit. Something that I never asked to be a part of me, but somehow it found its way in there; an expectation that I would eventually get married. Little girls in grandma’s attic, playing dress-up with her old veils and hoop skirts: “aww, what a beautiful bride,” they told me as I clattered down the stairs wearing curtains and lace and shoes too large for a girl of 5. I wanted to be beautiful too. Being beautiful was a good thing then.

I walk past wedding shops and craft stores still and think, “If I ever had a wedding, that would be at the reception.” I try on dresses, but no one tells me “aww;” they just nod knowingly as if a prince might sweep through the doors and carry me off then and there. As if a dress could make me beautiful enough for him to forget that carrying off girls is socially awkward these days.

I stare at myself in the mirror sometimes and think, “damn, that girl is gorgeous. Too bad I’m the only one who has the courage to say so out loud.” Later at the club, though, they whistle at me and call me hot and sexy. Congratulations on coming up with two syllables to sum up my appearance. Somehow, hearing it out loud doesn’t make me feel cherished. It makes me feel exposed and accosted. Too bad I can’t be gorgeous without being sexually objectified.

It’s not that I don’t want to be wanted. I know some people don’t find themselves in need of relationships, but I don’t mind romance. I think it’s stupid, but I still like it. But it’s weird to think that people wouldn’t want me because I don’t want sex. I get it; sex is a big deal, but I’m a lot better at conversation, massages, eating, and cuddling than I am at sex. Can’t you appreciate what I am?

“No one will want you because you won’t have sex. They’ll dump you eventually. You’re not good enough unless you’re willing to have sex.”

No one says it. But it hides in the depths of my brain waiting for my lonely days and my depression to forget how absurd it is. Because it could be true.

“You could just stop. You could just give up on this asexual thing. Why keep labeling yourself if it hurts this much? I just don’t want to see you get hurt.”

It’s not about the label. I could have no label, but I still wouldn’t want sex. So I wonder. I think that is my biggest fear (here, exposed in my blog for everyone to see. Classy). I’ve lost friends before because I’ve told them I’m not interested in them romantically. I’ve even lost friends because even though they knew I wasn’t interested in sex, they couldn’t stay “just friends.” Power to you, man, but just because I have a female body doesn’t mean I’m just a potential sexual partner/girlfriend. I’ve lost friends because they’re sexual and I’m not. Could I lose a partner for the same reason?

No. I’m not going to be like that. I’ll tell you right away. I’ll make sure you know. I won’t even start something. I can’t deal with being rejected before you even know me. I’m amazing. I just don’t like sex. If you like sex more than you like me, then let’s not date. I can deal with that. But I also don’t want to be alone. So, now what?

Man-Eating Vegetarians

I already wrote a piece about yoga. Hopefully I’ll publish it before I post this so no one is confused, but I’m going to write this bit anyway.

I found a photo of a clipping from a book today that said, “Beloved, do not take part in any of these components of Satan’s Spiritual Structure! They are doorways to demonic possession.” What followed was a list of classic satanic activities such as Astrology, Wicca, Necromancy, and Marijuana, as well as a few items that might not normally be on such a list. These included cyberpunk culture, vegetarianism, heavy metal, Lord of the Rings, and Twilight films.

Let me start by saying I’m not surprised that these items made it onto the list. If nothing else, I’m surprised Star Wars isn’t on the list as well. There is so much in this world that we have reason to be afraid of. Let’s face it, enough heavy metal can kill a person. Take lead or mercury for example.

Oh, Christians. How is it that the same group of people can contain some of the most caring, grounded, sensible people in the world as well as some of the rudest, most superstitious nuts in modern times? I don’t know about you, but I’m pretty sure that I’m not going to go to face eternal condemnation for failing to share that “like if you love Jesus, ignore for hell” post.

Well, I don’t think you really worry about going to hell for not sharing a facebook post either. Not when you think about it. All those good luck charms? You might have them hanging around just in case, but you know they don’t actually mean much. When you hit the cold floor, all the luck in the world deserts you and means nothing. Then where can you turn? Suddenly the religion you held to for comfort seems less feasible than anything else. Suddenly it doesn’t matter if you follow tribalism, Catholicism, Pastafarianism, Rastafarianism, Judaism, or vegetarianism.

Here we are at the end of all things (gratuitous LOTR quote). Where can we turn? There is evil in this world. There are things that will attack us and steal our hope. What can we hold onto? There is despair and brokenness and evil. But there’s also good, Mr. Frodo, and it’s worth fighting for.

See, I’m less afraid of bad luck, demons, or unknown things than I am of what I know exists: depression, illness, heartbreak, loneliness, failure, or poverty. What’s the point of fearing the unknown? There’s enough within the known to be afraid of (according to that one fellow who vanished into the crowd in Beyond the Deepwoods).

As Mme Ba indicates, why should we strive for the impossible; to achieve the possible is already a victory. This isn’t to say there isn’t anything beyond what we can physically see and feel. This isn’t to say we mustn’t have dreams. This isn’t to say we can’t seek comfort when we can’t understand what’s going on. It is to say, though, that we can find hope in the fact that there is One who is greater than demonic possession. Avoiding Yoga and punk culture can never guarantee that we’ll be safe. Why are we so afraid?

Another Silent Revolution

“Why did you change your name? Do you have a legitimate reason, or are you doing it just to be different?”

I guess I was sort of caught off guard by this question. It offended me. Of course I did it to be different, but not just to be different. But I didn't know what to say, so I just said, “that's how I think of myself.” To which he responded, “why?” and I didn't answer because I didn't know.

I didn't change my name a lot. Just one letter. The first vowel. When I introduce myself, most people don't even notice, and sometimes I have to repeat myself a few times before they realize it's different. But I think it's just like a nickname. Just a more permanent one. I've had a lot of self-inflicted nicknames over the years, but this one has stuck with me for most of my adult life, and I have a plastic card that says it's my real name now. But why?

At first I guess I thought it was because I didn't want to be the same as everyone else. This is a legitimate reason. There are healthy ways to be like everyone else and there are healthy ways to be different from everyone else. Having a new name is not an unhealthy way to be different from everyone else.

According to my brother, most people name their babies something different because they don't want to attach the association of a negative experience to their child. That's why there are so few girls named Hillary these days. Not that that was ever a really common name, but still. I can't say I ever had a lot of very negative connotation with my former name. I knew lots of people who had the same name as me, and 9/10 were pretty cool. But I didn't ever really like having the same name as something else. I'm different from other people; shouldn't I be called something different too?

So that's got me thinking. There are a lot of things about me that are different. I do my hair differently than most people. I have a few interesting exhibitions of body art. I have some unique jewelry. I don't always prescribe to conventional beauty procedures. I wear clothing that has been described as “the sort of thing only you wear.” Why do I do this? Am I that desperate to be different? Am I doing it just to get attention? Am I trying to make a statement, to get people to notice me and think, “oh, she's weird.”

No.

I am trying to make a statement, but it's not that I'm different. I am different, but that's mostly just a side effect of my choice to do what I enjoy. I wear my hair the way I do because I enjoy it. The fact that it's different from most people's is irrelevant. I wear strange clothes because I think they're beautiful. And if a few heads turn as I walk down the sidewalk, I don't really care. I am who I am and I love what I love, and I refuse to apologize for it.

There have been a lot of movements that have had power. Mobs and protests, petitions, viral videos, speeches and expositions. That's not what I'm about. I don't want to make a statement of revolution or rebellion; my statement is that this is normal. My goal is to normalize uniqueness. I want children to be able to wear clothes that aren't exactly like what everyone else is wearing without being ashamed. I want looking like yourself to be normal instead of having to dress to fit a mold. I want women to feel free to go unshaven without feeling like monsters. I want humanness to be normal. Because there's nothing wrong with being comfortable as yourself. Unless you're evil, which I guess we all are at least a little bit. The power of normalization is greater than most people seem to realize. Bikinis are a great example of this.

To those of you who balk at the idea of calling someone a different name than the one their parents gave them at birth or who consider it strange that someone would want to be called by a different pronoun than the one you're used to, I give you the right to feel how you want, but realize that you'll never be my friend. Names change all the time. Women change their last name when they get married. People assume nicknames in various circumstances. Celebrities trademark specific pseudonyms. Sure, it's comfortable to have something reliable like gender to be able to fall back on, but regardless of your stance on transgenderism, if your goal is to stay comfortable, you may miss out on many thrilling friendships.

I changed my name for a different reason than to be different or to normalize name changes. I can have a classic name or a unique nickname. Either is fine under the standard of normalcy. It's normal to have the name your parents gave you and it's normal to go by a nickname. But I want to be who I am. I want to have a unique name so that I am just myself, not just another girl with the same name as your cousin. Because we can't always help comparing those we meet to someone with the same name. I want to be unprecedented, and I want to be my own category. I think everyone is their own category, really. Sure we all have things in common, but none of us are really the same.

So, to be precise, I didn't change my name just to be different. I already am different. I wanted my name to reflect that.

Life on Hiatus

I don't know if it's possible to define what it means to really live. At least, not in the sense that colloquial Americanism puts it. Obviously we have medical definitions of what it means to be alive versus otherwise, though even that is somewhat contentious since with modern medicine, we can revive people even after they have been declared legally dead. Additionally, if the presence of a heartbeat and breathing along with brain waves are the hallmarks of being alive, what are we to make of that ever-present issue of when life begins in the womb? Yet if we cannot even decide on a medical definition of being alive, how are we to define that feeling of freedom and purpose that each of us seek in our most whimsical tempers?

The matter is further complicated by the broadness of what causes people to feel alive. Some feel alive at the top of a mountain or in the midst of some other breathtaking swell of nature. Others feel this purpose and thrill in dark alleys in desperate situations. Still others find life and purpose in cathedrals or prayer closets, and some find that lavish spending and ownership of expensive items brings them that rush that seems bespoken of life. While there seems to be great variation in what it means to be alive, like so many other slippery definitions, it remains fairly easy to describe what it means to feel dead.

If you are reading this, I find it unlikely that you have ever been dead in the medial sense of the term, though I suppose I have met several self-proclaimed phoenixes in my lifetime thus far, so it's not impossible. But despite this lack of literal deadness, I find it unlikely that you have not experienced an emotional state that resonates with the word “dead.” Perhaps you were listless, tired, bored, stressed, unhappy, or distinctly uncomfortable. Your emotional state was similar to that of a skeleton in a pineboard box, and you felt that you couldn't get out of it for whatever reason. You found yourself with a lack of purpose and your dreams seemed impossibly far away. If you've felt that way for more than 5 days in a row, you may have clinical depression like me.

I bring this up because I have just recently found myself relieved of the shackles of a constricting job, and now that I have time to think, I realize just how dead I have been feeling for the past 3 months. You know it's bad when you are counting down the days until school starts just so you don't have to deal with summer anymore. It's frustrating, of course, because all the things I wanted to do, including writing in this blog, were just shoved aside for the sake of something that I realize I don't even know why I wanted it. No amount of paychecks are worth the many sleepless nights and anxiety medications that I went through for the sake of this job. Yet I needed a job.

Isn't this the crux of it though? My dear free-spirited friend with the camera and the unique clothing choices sends me instagram photos with captions like, “travel while you're young and don't worry about the money,” or, “You were meant for more than just paying the bills.” But most problematically, I find that while my life thus far is not life giving and full of purpose, I find my stressful workload and lack of artistic outlet preferable to that summer I spent homeless. I guess it was nice for a while to have all the time in the world to pursue whatever I wanted (as long as it was free); I painted a lot, and I spent a lot of time driving around just to look at things, but I was also pretty hungry. I appreciate people like YouTuber Homeward Bound who packs up her whole life and drives around in an SUV. It sounds amazing. But the reason most people live in houses and work 9-5 jobs is that we as humans require stability as well as freedom. But how can we keep from being dead while living in a safe place?

A wise man once said that freedom isn't safe; that we can't experience true freedom without giving up a lot of safety, stability, and comfort. But truly, we can't have a great deal of safety and comfort without abandoning a certain amount of freedom. According to the idea cliodynmics, history repeats itself on a generational basis because generation 1 becomes restless and wars and catastrophes break out, and generation 2 grows up in this unrest and insecurity and therefore takes extensive pains to avoid it in their lifetimes. Unfortunately, the grandchildren or perhaps even the children of generation 2 grow up in the relative safety and comfort of this counter-movement and become restless as their ancestors a few generations ago did, and the cycle repeats itself. That is to say, we don't realize how awful war is unless we've lived in it, yet without war to contrast against, we become bored and dream of something more exciting than a peaceful life.

There are those who say that we are currently on the cusp of World War III. This, in my opinion, while a frightening possibility, is less likely than civil war based on the many factions of social and political causes at work in the United States today. I'm no political commentator. Those who know me wouldn't hesitate to say that my political beliefs are rapidly brushed aside in favor of individualism; if you want social change, don't get involved in politics: be that change yourself. But in whatever case, there is the possibility that dramatic civil unrest will rock the country I live in at any time. Will we feel more alive then? Will we find more purpose in vendettas and tactics and affiliations than we do in economics? Could that fix the many cases of purposeless young people that fill up our corporate world? Isn't there anything else that would do this more kindly?

I can only pray that my little brother wouldn't be drafted if it came to that.

So, what is freedom worth? What would I do to rid myself of this feeling of deadness inside me that caused so much lack of blog updating in the past 3 months? Relatively speaking, this has been the worst summer of my adult life, and that compared to a stretch of ridiculous jobs and lack of jobs and uncertainty about my future. I have more than once compared my job this summer to hell. But as a certain fictional military personnel once said on M*A*S*H*, “War isn't hell. War is war, and Hell is Hell. And of the two, war is a lot worse.”

I think we can all agree that the definition of really living does not include war. Meditations Minis says that we can find purpose and life in even the most mundane of activities if we take a moment to love and dream. But while I agree that we need dreams and we need to feel alive and full of purpose, there's also something to be said for finding a place to dream that isn't built on boredom, supposed victimization, or social positions.

(Why is there a picture of a colorful crochet blanket at the end of this post?

Obviously because I crochet when I'm anxious and this seemed like a pleasant photo to put up to trick strangers into reading my article that has nothing to do with crochet or hiatus. But it's pretty <3)

Advice to Me

I don't think I planned on that one summer being the launch point for my adult life. Who knew that first job my aunt got me the week after my 18^th birthday would keep coming back to me as it has? I had no interest in working as a disability aide, and I guess I still don't, but this is what I find myself doing. I didn't realize disability is so prevalent or that it can pop up anywhere.

I don't think I'm qualified to give “advice to 20 somethings” as is a popular trend floating around blogs these days. I have stories, of course, but what I take away from them is not what you might need. Life tends to keep going in a direction you aren't quite sure you like. I don't know why there's so much disability and violence in life. I guess I was surprised to find it in me too.

I'd give advice to my former self, but even I don't know the end of this story. Life isn't an Adventure in Odyssey; you can't usually make a half hour show with exposition, climax, and resolution. You know in a book it'll eventually be alright, because there's always an ending. Life isn't like that. I can't say for sure which parts will factor into the climax and which parts are just needless exposition.

Someone slapped me in the face yesterday (figuratively), telling me that no matter what my circumstances, I don't have to be miserable. I guess that's true, in a sense. Misery is a state of mind as much as it is a sort of thing that just falls on you, or perhaps that you fall into. I don't say this to downplay mental illness. If you don't know, I have depression and anxiety. People joke that “falling in love” is sort of a misnomer because you don't fall in love the same way you fall into a hole. But you fall into depression similarly to how you fall in a hole; you might be walking along not worrying too much about where you're going and suddenly you're 6 feet under and have no way to get out. Is it possible to not be miserable at the bottom of this hole though? I think that's where the metaphor falls apart. Depression isn't something you can see, like a hole. It's so intangible there isn't usually a clear direction you need to go. That's not to say I have to stay depressed, just that it's not really clear how to not be depressed.

I don't know that I have advice for my former self. That 18 year old girl that spent 4 hours a day watching a low-functioning 10 year old alternately tremble and drool in some ways is a lifetime away. That girl didn't have insomnia, a college degree, close friends, artistic aspirations, concrete plans, a political agenda, a liberal arts perspective, or a sexual orientation. She'd never had to pay bills, manage a budget, repair a car, stay up late studying, or weave through the intricacies of trying to date and not date at the same time. She'd also never really been on the internet. I wonder if the current me would do things differently if put back in that place. If she'd still stock up on snacks in her trunk and spend weekends thinking about doing something besides driving and playing freecell. But no matter how much I wonder, the truth is that I'm never going back.

I think that's one thing I would tell myself. I mean, I'd tell me “you're asexual. It's cool.” But I would also say that it's not worth having all those regrets. Of course, I believe in living life in such a way that I won't have regrets, but sometimes everyone does things that shouldn't have been done. But you can't undo them. I think I'd also tell myself that agnosticism isn't for me.

Maybe I'd tell myself to get as much training on disability as possible. How was I to know that abnormal psychology exists everywhere (to the point that it's not really abnormal)? But that field of knowledge is vast and unpredictable. I think one could study for a thousand years and not really understand it. I don't even understand my own depression and anxiety despite living with it every day.

But you know, 18 year old me knew something that I may have forgotten. She used to dream of a day when disability would be no more. There would be a day when that trembling, drooling child would no longer be autistic. He would have words and be able to walk and run and read and sing and create without assistance. He would be free. And I think that it's sometimes easy to stay in a place where disability is crippling and seems like it'll last forever and that there will never be any hope of freedom from it. But I wonder if this isn't just a cry for redemption?

When the World of Men Falls

There are so many problems. Human trafficking, world hunger, war, suicide, pornography, poverty, global warming, child soldiers, hopelessness, decomposition of family, education cuts, truancy, child abuse, hate crimes, mental illness, racism, terminal illness, chronic illness, rape culture, ignorance, slave labor, loneliness, vegetarianism...

Some couples I know refuse to have children who would grow up in this dark world fraught with danger and heartache. Some parents wish they hadn't had children for that reason. Although of course there are others who don't care much about their children, and many who couldn't imagine not having the children they have (or wish for, depending on the circumstances).

"What can man do against such reckless hate?" (J.R.R. Tolkien, the Two Towers). The world sometimes leaves us hopeless. How can there be a good god when so much Evil is in the world? What can anyone do that could possibly hope to make a difference?

I pose a question I do not pretend to have an answer for. I've been reading too many articles (and watching too much YouTube) with a definite call to action: "Don't buy your children smart phones", "Send your charitable gift now", "Pray", "Eat these 10 things and lose weight fast!" But the reality is that the world is too big for me. I take a stand against human trafficking one day, and the next day everything else I care about is demanding my attention too. The horror of all the wrong in the world bombards me whenever I choose to look at it, sometimes leaving me shivering with nightmares. Sometimes you just have to turn off the news. But then what about her--that girl you could have helped? What about him--the man who just needs a lunch? What about them--the ones who just need a hand to hold? Can we do nothing? Can we let them fall?

Yes, I did watch the Lord of the Rings in a one-day marathon last weekend, but I hope no one gets on my case for plagiarism. (sorry for not giving you the credit you deserve, Peter Jackson). 

Truth is, I care. Caring is hard sometimes. Okay, a lot of the times. It requires effort--to notice the wrong and choose to keep looking at it. To really feel it. To feel the wrongness of it and want it to stop. And then doing something. Doing something is hardest. But only if you choose to care. 

But I can't care for everything. God may have a heart big enough for the whole universe, but mine seems only big enough for one thing at a time. So I care for my family. I care for my neighbors. I care for my friends. I care for my coworkers and clients. And that just about fills up my quota, but I find that I can still care more. For the strangers I meet on the street. 

If you want to make a difference, get off the internet.

Having the Cake (but not eating it)

I told myself I would never publish an update like this, but after publishing the Great Pacific Garbage Patch, I feel like I should explain myself, even if no one ever reads this.

Why have I decided to call myself Asexual?

No one has ever explicitly asked me this. As of yet, I haven’t come out to many people in my life, although I have a whole other identity on the internet. Note that I love having the ability to be anonymous on the internet because it gives me the chance to explore what I really think without worrying that someone is going to be shocked at how I’m ruining my reputation. Or something. Basically, the internet is helpful to me. It’s where I first heard the term “asexual.”

Actually, I guess I’d heard it from a school counselor who asked me what I identified as. We talked about a lot of stuff that day, and he wasn’t very helpful, but I had written on the screening questionnaire that I identified as anti-sexual. When asked to explain that, I said, “I just don’t want sex. I don’t really like the term ‘asexual’ because like moss is asexual, but I just feel uncomfortable about sex and would rather it not happen to me.” A short time later I found the documentary (A)Sexual on hulu, and it resonated with me so strongly that I gave up calling myself antisexual and went with asexual instead, even though I cannot reproduce by budding.

Asexuality, for those that don’t know, is simply the lack of sexual attraction. I personally don’t have experience with much disbelief about it, but when I first realized I might be asexual, in my euphoria, I told a few people, “I think I might be asexual.” They seemed confused and told me, “I used to be like that, but now I have a boyfriend, and the longer we’re together, the harder it is to not have sex.”

To me, this business of desiring sex during a relationship was a novel idea. I had had a boyfriend for about 7 months, and I cannot recall actually wanting to have sex with him a single time. I remember wanting him to hold me. I remember thinking that kissing was about the silliest activity one could spend an hour doing. I remember teasing him to see if he could turn me on. The more I think about it, though, the more I realize I just wanted to be close to him. I wanted someone who would be willing to put his hand on my back and just stroke my hair. That was the extent of what I wanted in our relationship. He informed me some time after we’d broken up that he could feel a lust coming from me, and that it was hard to say no to having sex sometimes, but I never felt that way. I was a bit confused by it, actually, because even though I knew that sexual attraction factored into our relationship somewhere, I had no desire to experience anything involving genitals. (sorry if that’s too much information. Talking about sex is tough when you’re trying to stay PG)

So, the label fits. I’ve thought through it a number of times, and for me, identifying as someone who isn’t interested in sex is a no-brainer. In fact, in the few instances that I’ve talked about my asexuality with people, I usually simply say that I’m not really interested in sex. Most people get that. There seems to be a real hang-up when I go from saying, “I’ve discovered I don’t really want to have sex” to “I’m asexual” though. And this is a mindset that I’m still trying to figure out.

Because of other people‘s confusion with my preference for labeling myself, I’ve grown to appreciate my physical condition of CSS. Because this is not a well-known condition, I shall explain this also. CSS stands for Central Sensitivity Syndrome. It is a condition of unknown cause that makes my nervous system a bit different from other people’s. It’s not life-threatening, by any means, but it results in uncomfortable situations where my skin sometimes believes that clothing is painful, that carrying anything weighing more than a thimble is going to cut me, that there are insects crawling on me, and a number of other things that other people certainly experience, but generally to a lesser extent. I bring this up because it’s a condition I’ve had for a large portion of my life, but it was only diagnosed a year ago. Prior to my diagnosis, I wondered how people could live like strong smells didn’t bother them. When I realized that the difference was that my nervous system exasperated smells to me, it made it easier for me to function in the world.

To me, having CSS and being asexual are similar in one regard. They are both part of who I am. I didn’t choose either, but I have grown up experiencing them, which makes me just a bit different from my peers. Neither is really a problem, but each requires some special provisions on my part, and they request some consideration from people around me. For example, axe body spray? Only use a little. Please.

So, why do I identify as asexual? It’s not a lifestyle choice or a rebellious move, in my mind. Asexuality is simply a word to describe what I was already experiencing. It’s a word that helps me be comfortable as I realize that it’s okay to not be into chick flicks. It’s a word that reminds me that if I don’t want sex, it’s okay. It’s also a word that has helped me find community. Turns out there are a lot of people like me who have half-lives on the internet. These are people who will never tell me, “it’s just a phase. You probably just haven’t met the right person yet. I respect your lifestyle choice.” They’re people who are more like, “so, wanna get some cake?”

I don't honestly expect anyone to argue with me. I guess I could change the phrasing in my last post to reflect that. This concept of “coming out” is sort of weird since most people either don't know or care about asexuality. That's okay I guess. Unless you're dating me or subjecting me to another lecture on the evils of premarital sex. Asexuality is invisible for the most part. No one makes a fuss about asexuality. But no one exactly welcomes it either.

If you've gotten this far, I guess you've done the unexpected. I don't know what that makes you, but it's cool.