“Do You Think I Am Hip” & Other Questions Not To Ask Your Bartender

Don’t you JUST LOVE clichés? I spend an inordinate amount of time trying to avoid clichés, generally, in my life. But of course, dating is a minefield of them. “She was the one that got away” or “It’s not you, it’s meeee” or my personal favorite, “When you stop looking, that’s when he’ll show up!” The more sensitive among you will have to excuse me when I say “Oh… FUUUUCK YOU” to that one. This idea that, in order for the Universe to deliver your most Perfect Mate of Mates, you must absolutely stop caring about being alone gets more and more insanely offensive as you make your way through life as an aging single person. “Oh, it’s so easy!! I’m so happy and now do not care that I am alone in my bed each night and everyone I know is long-term attached and WHY SHOULD I CARE ABOUT ANY OF THAT HAHAHAHA LOLOL YOLO” and then pink glitter falls out of the sky and onto your Fancy-Free Single Gal Beret and you turn the corner and BAM! you and your rescued pit bull terrier and armful of flowers and dinosaur kale run right into the man of your dreams. A monkey could figure it out. Right?

I have pseudo-given up on love many times. After strings of meh dates or being really spectacularly dumped for the umpteenth time, who doesn’t? And I know that “stopping looking” and “giving up on love” are technically different, but frankly, the day when I have truly given up is the day I stop looking. I can’t have faith and not be looking. It doesn’t work like that for me. I’m always looking. I’m either looking to the guy who last broke my heart to realize he made a terrible mistake, or I’m looking at the gents in line at the cafe and forming romantic fantasies about them. What vexes me most about the “moment you stop looking…” cliché is that it implies that being “happily single” means you can’t also be looking for someone to build a life with.

With all those thoughts swimming through my mind (as always), I RSVPd “Yes” to a buddy’s (“Willis”) going-away party at a local bar. Looking BUT NOT LOOKING for love means you have to go to stuff because you never know who you’ll meet but you’re not really looking so it doesn’t matter if you meet anyone but you’ll never meet anyone you’re not looking for if you don’t go! Obviously. 

A couple of months earlier, The Doctor had left me in a pile of Female Discards and I’d been trying to shake off my pissed. But I’d deleted his number earlier that day and felt confident as I headed out. The party was great: many cool chicks to get to know, and some males to boot. One of them (Bartender) started up a conversation with me as soon as I got there. He was a cute little sandy-haired guy with an easy-going demeanor and a serious appetite for books. He was intelligent, clearly into music, and had the same weird middle-of-the-week days off as me.

We were deep in talk when the bizarre staring incident with The Doctor occurred, but Bartender was not phased. It felt like he was creating this air of “Wow, that guy’s a dick and you should probably hang out with me instead” around him. As he hit the bar to fetch me a beer, Willis (drunk, but hey, it was his party) leaned over:

Willis: “You and Bartender.”

Me: “Oh, stoppppp*!”

(*don’t stop)

Willis: “Same days off. (*points at himself*) Matchmaker. Matchmaker. You and Bartender. Do it. He likes you.”

Me: ” …”

Willis: “Matchmaker.”

Willis doesn’t normally talk like a caveman, but he had better things to do* (*drink) and I couldn’t blame him for conserving his energy. Bartender and I exchanged numbers and I left on a little high. Though he was nearly 10 years younger than me (not ideal), I didn’t care. He was cute and smart and well-read. And it’s always great when you get that push you need to really move past someone.

Some days later I found out a band I dug was playing a show in town. Bartender was young and surely liked live musical rock concerts, so I decided it was the best idea ever to text and ask him to go. He agreed (with exclamation points!) and asked if I wanted to meet beforehand at one of my very, very favorite spots. I was stoked. It was going to be a perfect date.

When I got to Favorite Spot, he was already seated at the bar, deep in conversation with the bartender. (If you’ve ever dated or known a bartender, you understand that they all know each other and all think they are amazing and there is much vouching for their buddies.) I learned that Bartender’s favorite author was nearly next on my endless reading list, and that he liked to sit at Favorite Spot and just read, alone. My brain went, “I like that!! I like taking books to bars to read! We are going to embark on a dating relationship!”

At the show, he ran into even more friends who were all very slender and attractive. Bartender didn’t seem super into the music, but he looked like he was enjoying my company. Though, as he was talking to* (*yelling at; it was a rock show) his buddies, our age difference really started to hit me. These girls and boys were all far cooler than me (except the one in the gross short dreadlocks). And they were all hipsters (…except for the one in the gross short dreadlocks). And they all had perfect topknots and mustaches made from their shiny, youthful hair (EXCEPT FOR– I don’t even have to say it now). I chatted and danced with some of the girls, but I felt like a complete fraud the whole time. I felt like the older woman who was desperately trying to appear younger by putting on her 15 year-old daughter’s slutty clothes and inserting herself into a concert crowd and using phrases like, “OMG, toooootallyyyyy” and “Your tattoo of a Precious Moments figurine wearing a shirt with the American Apparel logo on it is soooooo awesommmmme.”

After the show, we bussed it back to our mutual neighborhood and ended up in front of my apartment. When I asked him if he wanted to come up for a drink, he said, “No, I should probably just head home. Tomorrow’s a long day.” Shot down. I was surprised. He’d paid me a fair amount of attention the night we met, and exclamation-pointed me when I proposed we go out. And Willis was obviously a matchmaker! Yeah, he was too young, but I knew couples with far larger age gaps.

A few days passed and I texted him about a book that had just come out by his favorite author, just to attempt a re-kickstarting of the conversation. Like so many others, I decided to patently disregard his very tremendous I AM JUST NOT THAT INTO YOU signal, hoping I could potentially remind him that A) I am very literary, just like you, Bartender!, B) The other night was fun! and now I have all these great new tattoo ideas, Bartender!, and C) I still exist as a human person, Bartender. He reciprocated, and we had a pretty decent back-and-forth. Did he ask me out again? No. Did that stop me from texting him about music the next day? No. (“OBVI.”)

As expected, he fell off the face of the earth. It annoyed me, but I figured it was probably for the best. I didn’t figure that to a degree that stopped me from going to his bar a couple more times, though (when I was fairly certain he’d be working), looking hot and acting like I didn’t care. In hopes, of course, that he would see D) The error of his ways and E) That I still existed as a human person. (*Cue the GD sad trombone.*) One of those nights, the friend I’d asked to meet me was running late, so I sat at his bar. We had a lovely little conversation that convinced me we should be dating. Later, not too intoxicated, really, I texted him what was probably THE MOST OBNOXIOUS message I have ever sent to a guy. It was the length of the entire screen and written in a steam-of-consciousness style one might call, “The Meth Bender.” But I was a bit tipsy and utterly convinced it was irreverent, funny, a smidge sexy, and basically perfect. Was there a response? Of course not.

I ended up in his bar a week or so later, and once again, sat down where he could serve me. I decided I was going to make one last communication effort, and that his response would tell me all I needed to know.

Me: Hi, Bartender. (*completely cool, normal-person smile*)

Bartender: Hey! How are you? (*does not acknowledge the text*)

Me: I’m awesome, thanks! (*does not acknowledge the not acknowledging of the text*) Things are super good. (*lying*) I’ll have an (overly pretentious artisanal drink). (*second completely cool, normal-person smile*)

(-a few minutes pass-)

Me: Hey, Bartender, so… sorry for that, um, pretty crazy text the other night. (*gauging his reaction; seeing he is not going to fall in love with me*)

Bartender: (*smiling*) What text?

Me: Ha ha ha. Yeah… I was preeeeetyyy drunk.

Bartender: I figured.

And… SCENE.

As ever, my dating life was teaching me a lesson. Or it was trying to. It was trying to teach me to respect the signals being given, and not pursue every dating avenue I’ve felt could have potential to the point of embarrassment. By the time Bartender and I had that non-discussion about the text, my self-worth as a dater was pretty damned low, and I knew I was forcing the issue far beyond the point I ever should have.

But that’s sometimes the trouble with looking for lasting love. (Yes I said “looking.” I’M LOOKING, UNIVERSE. GO AHEAD AND JUST SEND ME THE CERTIFIED LETTER TELLING ME I’LL DIE ALONE, SHIVERING IN MY FUR COAT AND CLENCHING A VIRGINIA SLIM BETWEEN MY GREY TEETH.) Sometimes when you’re looking, it’s easy to look right past your better judgement and try to manipulate situations into becoming what you want them to be, rather than just accepting them for the non-starters or poor fits or turds that will not be polished that they are. Lesson learned.

OMG, totes JKs!!! Totes JKs.

xx!

Welcome to Chez Monde Réel. Try the Tongue.

After things went nowhere with The Alaskan, OKCupid still had me. But just barely. Nothing had stuck, nothing had felt exactly right. The metaphorical “well” was running “nun’s nethers dry” (sorry, Catholics. That’s inappropriate. Also, I’m not Catholic). Guys I wasn’t interested in messaged me over and over (even though I’d ignored them which is a totally necessary and legit move in online dating so stop judging), and I couldn’t get excited over anyone. The only potential suitor getting any of my time and attention appeared to be wearing an ascot–non-ironically–in his incredibly smug-looking profile picture. With each new pompous and assuming message he sent, I cringed a little more.

While I sussed out whether I even wanted to meet Asscot in person, horrible messages began appearing in my inbox. Men, nay, BOYS hiding behind the safety of their screens were not only negging me, they were writing me some of the most offensive, inane crap I’ve ever been confronted with.

Such as:

“Wow. Everything was great until ‘high heels.'”

I count high heels among my very favorite things and said so in my profile. I seep a certain amount of ladylikeness and I think it’s important for guys to know that. Especially in these parts, where the women often tend to be fleeced and clogged. And this guy felt so offended, he just had to convey that my love of heels officially made me The Worst.

And then:

“(blah blah Intro blah blah) …But what I’m really wondering is when can I see your butt. Your pictures make you look like you could have a nice body so I would like to see your butt. You can send me a picture. When can I see your butt.”

This dude was German, which possibly explained it. But when I read that, my Lady Business sucked so far up into my body, my lungs collapsed.

And finally, FINALLY:

“Unless you meet someone and get knocked up within a year, your chances of getting a healthy baby are depleting. Look it up. 35 and up.”

That’s when I lost my shit.

I couldn’t make sense as to why any man would send a message like that to any woman he didn’t know. I want to have kids and know my window is shrinking at a very real, often very scary speed. And my disgust with that message was greater than I could possibly relate here. While I’d ignored the others, I wrote this Walking Hemorrhoid back. I asked what the fuck was wrong with him, and why he felt the need to ever say anything like that. And I told him to enjoy his lonely, empty life.

I was shaken, and I blocked him and reported him to the site for abusive messaging. If you think that’s severe, you’re obviously not the owner of a uterus with a ticking biological clock you can feel throbbing within you even when doing something brainless and fun like getting drunk at the movies. (I’m looking at you, A-OneBestFemPals who poured “champagne” for me at that remarkably well-dressed, flaming turd SATC2.) OKC officially lost me at that point. I felt beaten up enough by the in-person dating world, and I didn’t want to be a punching bag for the virtual one any longer. Even just looking at the site felt like running headfirst into the bullet-saturated fray. I was done.

I asked other women who’d used OKC if they’d experienced anything like this, and none of them had. Inquire why I enjoyed this special and seemingly rare privilege and I might tell you that, perhaps I was a target of very hurt men who read my slightly snarky profile and assumed I could take it. Or they saw a vulnerability in me and negged because they figured they’d get a response. I’m still clueless.

Needless to say, the idea of dating had me feeling beyond frustrated and hopeless, but I couldn’t just hole up at home. If anything, I desperately needed to meet men for the first time in person, so I could see their ascots up close. And then I got an invitation to join a relatively new friend, Birthday Girl, and her Buddy Pack for karaoke. Perfect! I shook off my agitation and pushed up my boobs and scooted to the bar.

The place was loud and filled with youthful souls belting their hearts out. Perfect!! I found BG sitting on the stage–a big, low platform filled with retro living room furniture where you’re pseudo on-display/middle-of-the-action without much of a commitment. She introduced me to her friends, and one (let’s call him Spreader Of The Love) looked crazy familiar, but I couldn’t put my finger on why.

As people belted and got shitfaced with equal dexterity, SOTL sidled up to me and introduced himself. And BAM, I had it: He’d messaged me on OKC. My virtual world and my real world were smashing up against each other, which was extremely weird. And I felt exposed.

Me: Hey, are you on OKCupid?

SOTL: Oh, I’m on all of ’em.

Me: Because I think you messaged me.

SOTL: Probably. What did I say?

Me: Uh… sorry. I don’t remember any details.

SOTL: (~shrug~)

My God, did I feel special. And confused. His speech patterns and inflections sent my Gaydar screaming. But, of course, I knew it didn’t really function in Seattle; it only seemed to work in the Midwest. He got up to sit with other friends, and I leaned over to Birthday Girl and asked if he was gay. “Noooo. He’s way straight. He LOVES women! Ha Ha HA!” she howled. Huh.

We all kept bruising our livers, and he started flirting with me. I reciprocated with some charming conversation, though I wasn’t really interested. When he asked, I gave him my card just to be polite. And right after, I super lived to regret it.

From where I sat, the ladies’ room required a traversing of the stage downwind of the singer. And whilst inside it, I heard the sweet tones of one of my all-time favorite songs being wailed. I emerged to find that SOTL was the one doing the wailing, and as I crossed in front of him to my seat, I raised my rock fingers in the air as a salute. And he slapped my ass.

You may’ve noticed before that there’s an “ass” in embarrassment. And as I relate that episode to you now, I tell you that ass is me. By that point in the evening, “Rowdiness-Conducive-To-Sexual-Harassment-That’s-Not-Construed-As-Harassment” was the overriding mood of that place. So when SOTL slapped my cushioned lower end, I just turned and said, “Hey!” while I probably looked Fake Offended. When I should’ve slapped him back. Across the face. But I was tipsy and reacted completely opposite of the way my sensibilities told me to. LAME. Embarrassing. Ass-like, you could say.

By the time Birthday Girl and I called it a night, SOTL was already out the door, much to my relief. I didn’t want to see him again, ever. So of course he was standing outside the bar as we exited it. He and BG shared a big hug and a “So good to see you!!” and as I was giving him an “I think you suck and I think I also suck but I’m trying to be polite for some booze-soaked reason” wave, he grabbed me and stuck his tongue in my mouth for several seconds. As I pulled away in a state of WHAT THE HOLY FRAKING HELLBALLZ WAS THAT, he said,

“Nice to meet you. Sorry–I’m usually a way better kisser.”

I stumbled away and said something like, “Yeah, I’m sure you are.”

Perfect.

As I made my way home, I thought, “Kill me. This is meeting people in person in Seattle? Kill me.” I’d met people in person in Seattle, of course, but I was hoping my return to it after the Virtual Clusterfuck that OKC had turned into would be like a resuming of normalcy again. Like some sort of flirtatious, brag-worthy homecoming. I was an idiot.

It had been a long time since I’d regretted anything as much as giving him my card that night. He texted me the next day, and I ignored it for a full 24 hours. Then I replied with some polite non-starter, and he asked me out. I told him I’d “just started seeing someone and didn’t feel quite right about going out with anyone else but thanks for asking“ and all that. He said he totally understood and I should let him know if I ever wasn’t seeing anyone again. I was relieved and happy that, often, lying can be used as a force for good! And I didn’t hear from him again.

Until I did. He messaged me a handful of times over the next few months, and it was always the same: “Hey! How’s the boy?” At first I lied again, saying the (fictional) boy was “Great, thanks!” Eventually I just stopped responding. And he finally stopped messaging.

Incidentally, he ended up contacting another friend on OKC a couple of weeks later. She told me she’d gotten really funny messages and was considering going out with the sender. When she showed me his pic, I recoiled in horror. “THAT’S THE TONGUE GUY!!!” I screamed. “THAT’S THE GUY WHO STUCK HIS TONGUE IN MY MOUTH AFTER KARAOKE WITH BIRTHDAY GIRL THAT NIGHT!!” She looked slightly stricken. And very skeptical. And she said, ” …are you sure??” She didn’t want to believe me. She wanted this guy to be an Awesome Guy, not a Barbaric, Grossly Inappropriate Physical Contact Guy. She didn’t end up going out with him. I was relieved in a precog sort of way for her.

After flash-in-the-pan virtual connections and flirting, and waste-of-time one-off dates, and worlds colliding and face planting into the Uncanny Valley, more than anything, I was craving a “normal dating experience.” I wanted my meet-cute. And I wanted it in a cafe or a bookstore or the laundry room, and for me and the guy to have a charmingly witty exchange and instantly know we’re supposed to date, and then be driving somewhere or standing in line to retrieve a sinus prescription or picking out an avocado three weeks later and being struck with the absolute and gut-level certainty that I AM GOING TO MARRY THIS GUY. Too idealistic? Maybe. But where I was at was sort of the opposite of all that.

Truthfully, maybe there’s no such thing as “normal dating” in your 30s. It’s hard, and it’s messy, and it requires a level of proactivity that many people aren’t willing to invest. And most of the time, I don’t want to invest it, either. Because trying to find “that person” is exhausting. I can’t help it, though. I still have this kernel of hope buried inside me somewhere (probably in my fallopian tubes). And my fingers are crossed that it isn’t nestled there in vain. We’ll see.

To the Self-Help section!! (JKs. Sorta.)

xx!

Alaskan Whiteout

As the confusion generated by a guy whose face refused to stay the same melted into the wasteland of my short-term memory, I continued to trawl around OKCupid with as much invested study as I give to a McDonald’s Dollar Menu. Probably because I kept running into the same guys who didn’t interest me; the guys whose profiles painted them as excessively mundane, douchey, bipolar… or physically unattractive. Which made me feel like a superficial heel with nary a Mother Theresa bone in her body.

The thing is, OKC is just the world in condensed form. It’s full of normal-looking men and women who are all, unfortunately, searching for abnormally hot men and women. But until you interact with someone in person, hotness really doesn’t matter. We all know people we didn’t initially find attractive that we’d now happily jump into bed with, because we’ve been exposed to their whole package. (Or not. Ahem.) And truthfully, I’ve become leery of abnormally hot guys. The ones I’ve met that look like they could have any gal they want mostly act accordingly.

Yet, even though I know all this, it doesn’t matter in the land of Online Dating. When I get a well-written message from a dude I immediately want to… uh, put my mouth on, an old-timey school bell goes off in my brain and I’m powerless against the need to message him back. Because there’s still this hope that maybe the Holy Grail of Guys actually exists: this physically perfect being who happens to be extremely kind-hearted, a smidge dangerous, and gainfully employed. And while my Twenty First Century Evolved Brain recognizes that it’s far too easy to immediately idealize–or vilify–people based only on pics and written words, my Lizard Brain doesn’t. Until you start seeing fat red flags pop up in messages, Lizard Brain wins.

I started chatting with a very cute guy who struck me as intensely sincere (we’ll call him The Alaskan). Sincerity’s certainly not a bad thing, but I really like exercising a dry wit, and it makes me nervous when I feel like I have to keep that in check. But he owned two sea kayaks that he’d christened with beautiful female names, had nice things to say about Chicago and specifically, female friends he knew from Chicago (whence I’d far-flung myself) and profusely complimented my profile name. The guy was clearly pro-woman and good at feeding my ego. I liked it.

The day before we were supposed to meet for our first date, I remembered that I’d already made plans to return triumphantly with friends Cleopatra, Gin, and Stewardess to a local trivia night and wipe the floor with the intellectually inferior flaccid human gourds around us. (The way I get about my own trivia abilities is… let’s just say “animalistic” wouldn’t be too much of a stretch.) Expecting him to decline like a rational human, I said, “Hey, if you’re feeling really bold and want some awkwardness, you could join us!” And of course, he accepted.

My friends were very keyed up. I told them to behave themselves, and while they all have the capacity for “adult decorum,” they’re also totally squirrelly. I was nervous.

Twenty minutes after Go Time, he hadn’t shown. For future reference: If you’re going to get stood up, try very hard to do it in the company of three good friends. They’ll lubricate you with drinks, rub your back, and cushion the blow. Right when I’d officially given up on him and decided he was a “deeb,” in he walked. Apologetic, beaming, tremendously cute. Forgiven.

He’d made a point to comment on my affinity for getting dressy in one of his early messages, saying he hoped flannel shirts didn’t make me “queasy.” And like a psychic, I knew he’d wear flannel on our first date. He did. (With a handsome white henley underneath. And now you are left to determine whether I am actually psychic. I do know where that rash that’s been ruining your life is located, if that sways you.) He was outgoing, got along with C/G/S, and seemed game for whatever. I wasn’t sure if he was the right fit, but I was having fun and knew I’d see him again if he was into it.

He excused himself to the Man’s Room, and I noticed that Gin sat snickering, looking like the cat that ate that terrifying mutant Tweety Bird from the Warner Bros. version of Jekyll and Hyde. And Cleo looked agitated.

Me: “Isn’t he nice?? Wait. What? What happened? Did you say something to him when I was away from the table? WHAT DID YOU SAY?!??”

Gin: “I just said, ‘What’s with the white shirt.'”

Cleopatra: “No, you didn’t just say it that way. You said, ‘What’s with the white shirt?’” (Her tone was very bitchy and accusatory.)

Me: What does that mean??

Gin: “I just asked him what was with the white shirt and he said, ‘I wore it because white actually opens up channels of communication!'”

Gin was grinning like an asshole and thought the whole thing was hilarious. I was mortified and vowed to never talk about clothing with T.A. Or bring any of them on any more dates. For future reference: If you’re going to have a first date with a stranger, try very hard not to do it in the company of three good friends.

I prayed we could all just pull ourselves together enough to show T.A. that we weren’t a pack of complete asshats, and that Gin wouldn’t talk to him at all for the rest of the night.

Doing our level best to desperately skirt awkwardness, we made it through the end of the game. Happily, Team Me/C/G/S decimated the other milquetoast trivia wanks and ordered another round. T.A. couldn’t stay late, so we made loose plans for a future hangout, and when he left, the four of us who’d just lived through my first date sat around in various states of awkward/smug/irritated/relieved.

The next day T.A. sent me a sweet message in which he remembered everyone’s name from the previous evening (Ladies, this is **impressive**) and we arranged to meet up. Hoping for a better opportunity to talk and get to know each other–because it’s nearly impossible when you’re laser-focussed on trivia and envisioning the dead-eyed heads of your competitors on silver platters–I suggested a pub near him. And obviously I accidentally chose the noisiest possible venue in Seattle. It’s an uncanny ability I have. I’m still working out a way to make money from it.

As we yelled our life stories at each other over beers and the loudest open mic night folk singers anyone has ever heard, I thought, “This is not great.” But then we played darts, which was great. And somehow, he’d gotten handsomer since I’d seen him last, WHICH WAS ALSO GREAT. He told me about what he was into, specifically, month-long meditation retreats. Which was not great. I’m all for self-actualization and having a zenned-out existence, but I’m never gonna be new-agey enough for someone who does that.

I was bummed because he seemed to come terribly close to achieving Holy Guy Grailism level (…Male Grail??), and I knew we were not for each other. I didn’t want to go on a month-long meditation retreat. To anywhere. Even though I’d probably be about 700% better, person-wise, when I finished one. But he was so positive, and smiled all the time, and exuded this energy that said, “I am up for ANYTHING, people! Let’s paddle our kayaks to Alaska! …for a meditation retreat.” A few days after our ears had stopped bleeding he messaged me, saying he thought we’d be good as friends, but not more. And I agreed with him.

He sort of fell off the face of the earth, but it was totally fine. Because he was one of the only men I’ve dated in Seattle who was honest with me about his feelings. If there’s a one thing that completely vexes me about dating, it’s that most people, both men and women, think it’s better to self-whisk into the Ether than to say, “You’re cool. But I don’t think it’s going to work out, dating-wise.” We would all save each other a pantload of wondering and self-loathing and general sad confusion if we could just come clean with each other. “But confronting feelings and people head-on is haaaarrrrd!” whines everyone in unison. Of course it’s hard! But it’s less hurtful than just disappearing. And it’s more adult.

And adulting* is hard.

(*Thank you, Kelly Williams Brown, for this word.)

Again (again?? Ugh), I found myself reluctantly returning to OKCupid, wondering if there were any elusive Male Grails I’d missed. But by that point, the charm was truly wearing off. In the beginning, OKC felt like a multi-storied boutique that was super fun to poke around in and stocked by most boffo party girls you knew in college. Now it seemed more like a Walmart at the end of Black Friday. I’d become so tired by the mere idea of online dating that I knew I couldn’t give anyone a fair shake, something that so many decent people deserve. And I wanted to shake people fairly. Luckily, I would get better at that, but not in the immediate future. I had to go through some who just deserved to be shaken–and shaken violently–first.

In the mean time, all I could do was keep my eyes–and lines of communication–open. (Incidentally, I do think it’s a total coincidence that I’ve started wearing a lot more white.)

xx!