I'm Uncertain About Certainty

Certainty.

I don't actually think this exists.

Two people can know two opposite things with what they consider to be absolute certainty and all it really shows is that both are kinda arrogant.

Plus, sometimes, the not knowing is so much better than the knowing.

Think about a movie, or album, or book that you just loved and you watched, listened, or read it over and over again and it got to the point where you wished you could go back and experience it for the first time all over again cuz that's when it held most of its magic.

Not knowing holds so many possibilities.

So many of us joined the Peace Corps for similar reasons. I won't go into them cuz frankly they're boring by now but I will tell you just one of mine. I'd lived in the same town in Southern California all my life. I'd had the same friends, then same life, the same little bubble that I wasn't even aware existed cuz, well,  bubbles are see-through and sometimes you just can't tell you're in one. I was typecast, so to speak. I had my role and that was it - breaking out of it wasn't really an option cuz if I ever did anything that wasn't a typical "Adrienne" thing to do someone would surely stop and say, "Hey, look what Adrienne did. That's not right."

But.

In joining the Peace Corps, I got to experience an all new country, all new group of people, all new everything. I got to be whoever I wanted to be and change the things that I desperately wanted to change about myself without anyone being the wiser.

And now, with graduate school, I get the opportunity to do it all over again. And it's exciting. I like the uncertainty of a new place, new people, and a new me.

I'm a huge, no, HUGE fan of people who are genuine. Completely themselves all the time and couldn't give a rat's ass whether what they do is popular (which is actually unpopular) or unpopular (which is actually popular). But that doesn't mean we can't change. Self-improve. It comes with time and maturity and, most importantly, experiences. I'm happy to be experiencing so much with my life right now and as this Peace Corps journey is coming to an end, I'm excited for the not knowing of the future.

-Age

10 Things

10 Things I Love About Bulgaria:

• martenitsi
• wild flowers
• teasing my students  
• hanging my clothes out on the line on a sunny day
• when my colleagues make each other laugh
• watching my students horo
• hearing my 5th graders insert a random English word into a Bulgarian sentence
• "той беше unfriendly, Мис."
• "Аз съм пич и много confident. На ли, Мис?
• strolling the pazar eating a bag of fresh cherries
• friendly drivers giving me a ride to the next town over
• feeling very confident about using public transportation

 10 Weird Habits That Will Be Awkward When I Get Back Home:

• nodding for "no" and shaking for "yes"
• inserting a random Bulgarian word into an English sentence
• "I want a pizza без corn and mayonnaise, please."
• "Hey, стига, that's not funny."
• talking to myself
• putting feta cheese on everything
•  treating every bed and couch as though they're made of clouds and goodness
• hugging washing machines and kissing dryers
• insistence on unwavering and intense eye contact during every cheer
• assuming you can take a break from work and chat with me at any point during the day
• complaining about the length of words and lack of acronyms
• suggesting weekend trips that are several hours of travel away

-Age

How Low Can She Go?

I've been feeling low lately. Not at all myself. I blame the weather and almost believe it but I think it's just a case of Peace Corps Blues. I'm homesick and I'm weighed down with the thoughts of what these next four months mean. 

Also, I've changed.

I reached a lot of my limits. The limits of my patience, my compassion, my kindness. The things about me that I once thought limitless have reached their frayed ends. It's as if there are two sides of me, the old me and the new me, fighting for who gets what when this is all over. The old me is negotiating how much it's willing to allow as permanent change and the new me is negotiating which changes it wants to keep and which it wants to leave here forever. 

Here's what I'm afraid of:

• I've grown lazy.
• Will I be able to go right back to being busy? Will I be able to handle a 10-12 hour work day without once feeling overwhelmed or overworked, as I once did? Will I be able to work a normal, 8-hour work day and fill-in the rest of the time with practical and interesting tasks? Or has learning to relax and take things slower without the guilt (though, clearly, there's still guilt) something I want to keep?

• I've lost a sense of unconditional kindness and compassion.
• I've always had this strong idea of mankind as a whole. I help you if you need it and you help me when I need it. We give and take and try and perfect the harmony of a connected humanity. But, now, there are people I refuse to look at when I'm walking down the street, eyes I can't meet going down the halls of my own school, people I'd rather not associate with because of bad past experiences. These people aren't necessarily in need...but...is it still kindness when it's easy? If it's hard for me to lift my head and smile at a man I know will more than likely make me feel uncomfortable, isn't that all the more reason to do it because that may be the only smile he gets all day? When a student who makes it his job to flip me off at every chance walks past, shouldn't I still say hello just in case this time he'll keep his opinion of me to himself?

•  I've lost motivation.
• What do I want to do again?

• I don't listen.
• I used to pride myself on being a good listener. I genuinely cared and wanted to hear everything my friends, family, and students had to say. Now, I'm so full of my own worries, complaints, and ideas, I've suddenly so much to say, that I don't really listen anymore. I interrupt and I go on and on and when people need an ear, I'm all mouth. On the other hand, I've learned who of my friends are also good listeners, maybe something I didn't notice before but appreciated now (the inverse is also true, unfortunately). But, will I calm down and listen when I get home?

•   I've gotten grumpy.
• Where's the line between assertive and bitchy? Cuz I really don't know. Sometimes I think well done, you've stood up for yourself and other times I think why did you just say that? When several hours of train travel in one weekend, lack of understanding, cultural obstacles and the like become too numerous, I just let the bitch out. I didn't even know she was there. Do I like her? Do I wanna keep her? Maybe as just a weapon for extreme situations? I really don't know.

I'm afraid of those things and other things too - like rabid dogs, the plague, and rejection letters. That moment right before you go over the edge on a roller coaster. Cauliflower.

I'm interested to see how this all turns out. But, right now, I'm feeling a little low. But spring is apparently here as of today, so that's encouraging. Maybe I'm just an icy snow queen who should avoid places like Siberia, the North Pole, and Minnesota.

-Age

Anecdotes From My Father's Childhood: Part 2

When we last left little Dennis, he was waiting for his mother to finish applying the chamomile lotion that would sooth his many hornet stings so he could run down to the lake before the other neighborhood kids had gotten bored of surfing and moved onto something new.

His impatience overtakes him and he stands up, telling his mother he’s fine, and runs towards the front door.

“Hey, hey, hey! I don’t think so, buddy. You’re not going anywhere with all those stings. You just sit inside for awhile and stay outta trouble for the next hour or so. I don’t need to be worrying about you running all over town lookin’ like that. Sit down.”

As his stoic father leaves the house for work, Dennis tries to convince his mother he’s fine. It’s pointless, she won’t budge. He isn’t aware of just how damaged he looks, covered in angry, red bumps and his mother isn’t prepared to answer questions about why her son looks the way he does. Small towns are notorious for gossip, Bedias being no different, and she refuses to allow rumors of her as an unfit mother to spread around the neighborhood. She's worked too hard to keep her four children – 2 boys and 2 girls – clean, fed, and well-behaved for a hornet attack to change things.

The day wore on and hour after hour Dennis asks his mom if he can go outside to play. “I’m fiiiine, mom. I really am. I feel good. Fit as a fiddle!” It was like talking to a brick wall. He was beginning to worry she might not let him ride the tractor and the thought was so terrifying he immediately reassured himself that no one could be so cruel.

His father comes home tired and in need of a hot shower. He says nothing but pats his injured and clearly miserable son on top of his sandy-blonde head before heading to his room to clean and feel human again. Dennis knows he’ll have to wait ‘til his daddy reemerges from the bedroom before he can state his case for freedom. He’ll tell daddy that mom’s “actin’ real crazy again” cuz sometimes that makes him laugh, knowingly.

His plan fails. His father's just as obstinate as his mother, refusing not only to let him play outside, but to let him ride the tractor as well. Dennis realizes he must look a lot worse than he thought and runs to the bathroom to survey the damage. He’s shocked to see red, mottled skin and quarter-size bumps all over his body, some overlapping one another to make miniature mountain ranges on his shoulders and back. He admits to himself that they still sting a bit and are beginning to really itch but what could be better for such an ailment than a slow ride on a big, yellow tractor? Tears begin to well in his eyes before he can stop them but he refuses to let any spill over onto his face. He is 12-years-old after all.

When all the kids begin to gather on the road outside, pushing and arguing about who gets to be first when the tractor pulls up, Dennis’ brother and sisters join the group. It’s only Dennis who’s left to peer out the window, seething with jealousy.

After the tractor has been chugging up and down the street for over an hour, each time passing with a different group of kids sitting on and around his uncle, Dennis hasn’t moved from his seat near the window. Head resting on his chin, permanent frown on his face, his mother finally gives in and tells Dennis he can go for “one ride. Just one.”

Dennis is beyond surprised, he’d given up hope long ago, and he runs out the door as fast as his feet’ll carry him before she can change her mind. He runs down the front porch, mom watching from the kitchen window, down the lawn and around the front gate. He decides he’ll cut through the neighbor’s yard in order to get to the queue of children that much quicker. It’s as his colt-like legs are really flying that he sees a couple stubby posts ahead. He realizes, with only milliseconds to spare, that he’s about to run into a barbwire fence and puts on the brakes, his heels sliding against the dirt, his arms flailing in big circles trying desperately to stop himself before he slams into the nearly invisible steel cables. He manages to stop inches away from the rusted spikes and chances a glance back behind him, at the kitchen window. He sees his mother’s face and even from this distance he knows it’s not good.

His mother marches out the front door, down the steps and with hands on both hips she yells, “Get your butt back inside. Now.”

That’s it. He’s done for. He has no choice but to march back inside, head hanging, feet dragging. He was so close. Without a word he resumes his watch of the tractor’s circuit through the living room window, defeated. He’ll not be getting a ride on the tractor this year. He spends the remainder of the evening debating the usefullness of hornets and barbwire.

Thirty years later tragedy becomes comedy as my siblings and I listen to the grown-up Dennis tell this story. He still feels sorry for that poor kid who spent the longest day of his life covered in hornet stings and chamomile lotion.  But now he has his own tractor and gets to ride it whenever he wants - he's even used barbwire on a professional level. Though, even today, he still has no idea why God created hornets.

-Age

Anecdotes From My Father's Childhood: Part 1

As I'm trapped in snow and dreaming of summer I offer you a tale of embellished truth from the Dinner-Table-Talk of my youth. Not to be taken seriously (as the details are hazy) or lightly (as the details are inconsequential):

It’s a sunny day in a small town outside of Houston, Texas. In fact, Bedias is buzzing with the sounds and smells of summer on this particularly balmy Sunday afternoon. Dads are just coming home from work in the cattle yards, dirt and dust making a home in each line on their face; moms are bringing plates full of barbecued meats and potato-based side dishes out to tables laid with checkered cloths; kids are running amok with no shoes, no shirts and no worries because it’s summer and there is nothing to fear with school still weeks away. It’s 1965 and no one’s thoughts spread much further than the town, the weather, and the event about to go underway.

However, little Dennis is sitting in his living room, staring out of the freshly washed windows with a sour look on his face and an impressively contained temper that only years of practice allow him to keep brewing just under the surface. The dozens of hornet stings on his back and torso, along with the heavy smell of chamomile from the lotion generously applied to his entirety by his mother are mere annoyances compared to the torture of his current situation. He continues to glare out the window, having never known such injustice…

Earlier that day, Dennis was no different than any other kid in town, caught up in anticipation for later that evening when conditions would be ideal – after the worst of the days heat had passed but before the mosquitoes would really start to feast. He’s twelve years old, wearing overalls and telling his mother over a quick bowl of frosted flakes just how excited he is that today his uncle is giving all the kids in town a ride on his John Deere tractor. Uncle Speedy does it every year during the summer and the kids look forward to this event the way kids in other towns look forward to the circus or trips to amusement parks. He only got two rides last year but this year he’s much bigger, having completely grown into the Nike sneakers of his three-years-senior brother, and is sure he’ll get at least four rides this time, if not more.

While he’s in the middle of explaining all this to his mother, who’s washing dishes in the sink and “mm-hmm”-ing when appropriate, and as a spoonful of cereal that will in no way impede his monologue precariously approaches his already full mouth, a boy runs up to the front porch and yells through the screen door that “we’re all going down to the lake to surf! Ask your daddy for a board and get down there quick!”

Dennis isn’t one to ask his daddy to find him a board, no siree. He adds the half-finished bowl to the pile of dishes in the sink and runs out the back door before his mother can protest. He scans the backyard for some long pieces of wood he can use to surf – the way they do it in California. He’s seen all the surfer movies and figures with his long blonde hair, blue eyes, and tan skin he’s halfway to hanging ten already.

Jackpot.

He sees a long board nailed on either side to two tree stumps, an old makeshift bench that hasn’t been used in years. Perfect. He is one to ask his daddy first before ripping old benches apart so he runs back into the house and into his parent’s bedroom. He asks his father, whose sitting on the side of the bed putting on his work boots, ready to start the day, if he can “pry off the board from that ol’ bench outside.” His father takes a minute to tie his last shoelace, thinking. Dennis knows better than to interrupt his daddy while he’s thinking. His father finally assents with an “OK” and Dennis is out like a flash, realizing he’s already lost precious time at the lake.

He examines the bench, both hands on his hips, foot tapping and eyes squinting, trying to find just the right way to extricate the board. There are only two rusty nails on each end of the plank, securing it to the stumps and he figures he’ll just have to give it a good tug and they’ll come right out. He starts on the left side and pulls, propping one foot against the side of the stump for extra leverage. He hears the nails squeak as the board is somewhat loose already but no amount of pulling can loosen them any further. He tries the other end and gets the same result. He kicks at the board swiftly with his left foot, the one he uses to score goals in soccer. Nothing. He steps back, scratching the side of his face and hoping he doesn’t have to ask his daddy for help. His father doesn’t like working in the heat and wakes up most summer mornings already grumpy with years of experience telling him it’s gonna be another exhausting day with the cattle. Then it hits him.

He lays down on his back next to the bench and slides over, through the dried-up weeds and tall grass, until he’s positioned directly under the bench, the coveted board a foot or so from his face. He places both his hands and feet against the board and pushes with all his might. He can hear the nails creaking as the board begins to give. Then he feels it. A sharp pain in his right shoulder. He figures he must have leaned against a jagged piece of glass and slides an inch to the left. Then he feels it again. His back. His chest. His arms. All over! He tries to swat at what he has now realized are hornets while simultaneously crawling out from under the bench, but the stings keep coming. When he’s finally free and standing, he realizes he must have been screaming as his parents are running out the back door, worried looks on both their faces.

When the damage has been assessed, Dennis is told by his father that he’s disturbed a hornets’ nest and they’re still “buzzin’ around mad as…well, hornets!” and by his mother that he has “twenty-two stings and the beginning’s of a nasty rash.” Dennis can’t believe his bad luck but is already making plans to trade what he knows to be a worthless baseball card to the neighbor kid (who only pretends to know about the sport) for a chance to use his board. He’s not going back out there again, that bench is a permanent backyard fixture as far as he’s concerned. The hornets can have it.

To be continued...


-Age

Pepi's Birthday

I've spent a lot of time in Bulgaria, nearly 2 years. During this time I've done a lot of nice things, a lot of time spent helping and being a good little volunteer. However, I've also done a lot of judging. I think I've  just got Bulgaria all figured out. I know where all the problems lie and I complain to friends over skype or in person about how much easier our jobs would be if certain things were addressed and changed. I get frustrated on a daily basis by the things I can't change and by putting any issues involving education, teachers, students, parents, etc. into a box that I can name and talk about makes it easier to handle. I judge and bask in the glory that is my Perfect Version of Bulgaria. If only they'd let me run the country...

And then I went to a 5th grade student's birthday party.

Now, my 5th graders are impossible. They are all significantly below grade level. Most of them would be classified as illiterate by American standards and that is unfortunately not an exaggeration. To say they are difficult to teach is an understatement and I dread Tuesdays when we have two hours in a row with these ADHD/music-playing/constant-wiggling/shut-up-shouting/always-argueing/KAKVO?!?! little hellions. I often wonder how they were allowed to become these versions of themselves. How can a class of only a dozen students spend hours at school every day for years and not know how to read or write in their native language? Why does the school bother to teach them a second one? Why aren't parents more involved? Why isn't there after-school help to get them back on track? Why isn't anyone doing anything?!?!

I thought I knew why. No one cares. Apathy.

And then I went to a 5th grade student's birthday party.

5th grade isn't the only class I struggle with, I have a lot of students who are very similar and many more who can add "violent", "thief", and "destructive" to their academic resumes. I can see the futures of every 8th grade student from now until they're walking down the icy streets with bent backs and canes struggling to get a small bag of bread and cheese back to their concrete home. And I think "why?" Couldn't they just try a little harder? Put in a little more effort? Take advantage of a relatively easy education and make something of themselves? Take something seriously?!?!

Again I thought I knew exactly why. Years of being spoiled and never told no. Not knowing a life different from this one. Not caring. Apathy.

And then I went to a 5th grade student's birthday party. This is what happened:

I took the 2:45pm bus from the center of my village to the Mahala on the other side of some low, rolling hills. Tucked away and with a truly breathtaking view of a famous mountain range is Veselitsa, the Mahala (or ghetto) on the outside of town. The houses are old and crumbling and cars are abandoned everywhere, along the roads and in front of equally useless buildings. The few nice cottages are for English tourists who come in the Spring and Summer months to get away in what I imagine they think is a quaint, nicer version of The Bulgarian Village. Businesses are few and most store windows are blackened, not having been used for what looks like decades. The streets are windy leading up to the center and it's cold, cloudy.

I step off the bus with every other passenger staring, no doubt wondering what I'm doing there, and I'm waved down by two of my students with, "Gospozha! Miss!" I wave to them and immediately wish Pepi a happy birthday. He sees I have a gift but doesn't mention it. I realize later that I probably should have handed it to him right away. Welcome to Veselitsa, they say.

We walk up the cobblestone street and stop in front of a very old wooden door and he beckons me inside. We're greeted by a puppy who's chained up to the fence and practicing being ferocious which he no doubt will be someday soon. As we walk through a door at the side of the house, I have to duck in order not to hit my head and immediately feel a wave of heat. There's a small, iron furnace burning in the tiny room, two beds, a small sink, one cupboard, and a baba. A baba is a grandmother and I'd met Pepi's briefly a few months before when I came to the Mahala to visit my students and play cards in the Fall.

We ate dinner. Kyufteta (meat patties) and bread with a fizzy drink and some coffee. There was lyutenitsa (vegetable preserve) for the bread and I was given a jar to take home and promised more whenever I wanted. I noticed how polite Pepi was, how different from the crazy, loud, class clown Pepi from school. He encouraged me to eat. He re-phrased his baba's Bulgarian as it was difficult for me to understand. He told me about an old picture on the wall, it was of his baba and her husband on their wedding day in 1963. It's then I realized this wrinkled and bent old woman with a cane and fewer teeth than fingers was only a decade or so older than my own mother.

After dinner, Pepi handed me a stuffed Winnie the Pooh and said it was for me. I thanked him and noticed him looking at the green, flowered bag with my gift out of the corner of his eye. I realized my mistake and quickly told him to open his gift. I'd bought him a robot that had to be put together out of Legos. As he opened the box and took out each small bag full of tiny Lego pieces he began to look more and more confused. It didn't look like the robot on the box. When he realized he was going to have to build it himself he looked at me like I was a silly American who'd been tricked into buying something that wasn't even put together yet. He set it aside, clearly never to be played with again. Later, when his uncle was trying to put it together and getting very frustrated, refusing to follow the directions no matter how many times I encouraged him to, Pepi said he hated it. He said it to make his uncle feel better and there was such a contradiction in his sweet voice that all I could do was laugh and promise to buy better gifts for children in the future. Ones that come already put together and ready to play with. I should have just bought him a soccer ball. His uncle and baba combined efforts and gave him 10 leva. He was very excited to spend it on snacks at school. The good ones.

I asked about another black and white photo on the wall. It was his baba, a dozen or so years after the honeymoon photo, with her 3 children. Pepi's uncle, aunt, and father. Pepi told me his dad doesn't come here. I asked what he meant and Pepi repeated himself. He doesn't come here. He lives in another town. I don't see him. Then Pepi shrugged and ate some more bread. I know nothing about Pepi's mother but I do know she doesn't come here either. Whether that's because she's passed away or because she also lives in another town, either way, probably isn't something I'm prepared to know.

I asked Pepi who started the fire in the furnace. He did. Who made the coffee, washed the dishes, cooked the food? He did. What time do you wake up, Pepi? 5:30. What do you do at home for fun? Listen to the radio. Sing. Dance. Play soccer. So, it's just you and your baba? Yes, but his uncle comes from Sofia in the winter to help. They need help when it's cold. His baba can't walk very far, she has a cane.

No wonder he plays in my classroom. It's his only escape. It is his play time. His time with friends. No watchful baba eyes and no coffee to make.

We spent the rest of the day playing soccer and sledding. All on ice. The snow from a few weeks prior had condensed and frozen, making everything very uneven and slippery. Soccer was not easy to say the least and we all fell hard, laughing and picking ourselves back up only to fall again a few seconds later. The sledding was easier and using a plastic bag was pure genius. Just sit on it and go, so fast the wind hurts your cheeks. We flew down the hill and crashed into large piles of snow, dusting ourselves off for the treacherous climb back to the top. Gospozha, don't scream, Pepi told me. I have to, I say.

Pepi walked me back to the center and waited with me for the bus. He listened to my ipod and danced with his baba's cane which he brought for protection from the wild dogs that constantly prowl. He asked if I had a pen and if I could write my phone number on his hand so he could use his uncle's phone to call me and ask how I'm doing on the weekends. (I got a very brief call from him later that night. I could hear his baba and uncle in the background, one encouraging him to ask me how I was, and the other encouraging him to hurry up.) He asked if I'd like to come again and maybe stay the night. I could sleep in his bed, next to his baba's bed, and he would sleep on the floor. He asked me for the millionth time if I'd had a great day. Not nice, he says, great. It was a great day, wasn't it?

It was a great day.

-Age

The Gist

What's happened to me lately:

• Winter break was a lovely time full of no school and snow and relaxation and sleeping in late and not showering if I didn't feel like it and more food than a single person should consume and elephants. Only one of those things is a lie.

• I had to call in sick for the first time this year cuz I had a migraine (also a first for this year - I get less and less of those which has been so very nice) and two of my students came by my house during their break to make sure I was OK. I didn't exactly appreciate it at the time as I was forced to leave my bed in order to respond to their incessant pounding but I thought it was sweet much later.

• I got invited to a 5th graders b-day party. It's tomorrow in the Mahala (a smaller, poorer area outside of our town). I'm actually pretty excited about it. The last time I went to a 5th grader's party, when I was in 5th grade, I had a really good time so I'm anticipating A LOT of fun.

• I got married. No, wait, that was a dream. It was to Tim Gunn. I don't wanna talk about it. Stop asking.

• I started teaching an art class after school. My counterpart and I bought all the supplies with the money the girls from my Volunteer Committee raised during the summer. We're also going to paint a big mural for the classroom with a Peace theme. I'm excited.

• I've applied to 5 grad schools. Seattle, Milwaukee, Pittsburg (I know, ew), and 2 in New York. So much paperwork. Sheesh.

• I'm planning this real big thing for my birthday which involves ignoring it completely. I'll just be 25 for awhile, I think. And then, when I can no longer get away with that, I'll just be 29 forever. I'm not afraid of looking older (lie), just being older. There are certain things expected of someone as they draw nearer their thirties and I just don't wanna.

• I danced. And not just alone in my apartment but at a place for dancing and with, like, people. They danced with me, they didn't just watch me dance. It wasn't like that. It was an equal dancing opportunity kinda situation. Though there were professional dancers there too - we watched them. It wasn't creepy, they kept their clothes on. It wasn't like that. I gave them a thumbs up when they were on a break which I think they appreciated. I wore a dress and drank 2 beers for the cost of 7. It was nice.

• As I've mentioned, I live on the second story of a two-story house and I now have permanent neighbors on the first floor. They are two older dudes. One speaks English OK. Their nice. My director asked me to leave class in order to come talk to her in her office. I was a little freaked out and thought I was gonna be in trouble (not sure why but, hey, it's the principal's office) but it turns out she just wanted to make sure I was comfortable living with those two guys on the first floor. I said I was and she said OK and then I left without detention.

• I'm in the middle of watching all 10 seasons of Friends. More than any American-based TV show I've watched in Bulgaria, and there have been many, this one makes me miss home. I wanna live in an apartment in New York with all my best friends and drink lots of coffee and laugh and date men with serious yet comical issues and just have a great time worthy of being watched every Thursday night at 8:00pm. I'd also just like to live near real good friends again. I miss that. I know integration is an important part of this and I have made friends but my friends are my mother's age and have lives far different than mine. But, that'll be my life again soon so I might as well get the most I can out of Bulgaria over these next few months, huh? Yeah, OK.

That's all. I'd write more often but, I don't want to. OK, bye!

-Age