The Reality of Frozen Yogurt

Frozen yogurt places are quickly becoming Utah's greatest culinary prostitute. Is there a single block between Provo and Salt Lake that doesn't have a Yogurtland, Spoon Me, Spoon It Up, Yozone, etc.? If it weren't for cupcakes, fro-yo would be Utah's only culinary prostitute, and we know that the only thing taking up more real estate than fro-yo places is LDS chapels. (Now don't get me wrong--I love the fact that I can travel down 9th East in Provo and see, I dunno, 28 chapels and 13 more under construction (rough estimate).)

But I'm digressing from my point. 

I've never really been a frozen treats kind of girl. I can enjoy a good vanilla cone, or small dish of ice cream every now and then, but I will never be the kind of girl that craves it. Blame it on my sugar-free-cereals upbringing, subsequent sugar gluttony, and then recovery. Or blame it on the fact that I have sensitive teeth and a tongue that just don't like cold things. Whatever reason you choose, take it, run with it. Fact is, I'm not an ice cream girl. Or a frozen yogurt girl. If anything, I'm a frozen custard girl, but that's another topic for another day. For me, the point of frozen yogurt is to get enough to allow you to get as many mini gummy bears as possible half-frozen on top of it. The fro-yo's just an adhesive cooling device. 

Now, I suppose the fact that I'm already not such a fan of frozen yogurt really discredits my reliability as a giver of the following opinion, but so be it:
Frozen Yogurt is a LIE, STEVEN!!! 

Just kidding. Your name isn't Steven. I was just channeling Jack Black there for a moment. (Please view the following video if you no comprendo.)

Anyways. Back to the reasons why frozen yogurt is a lie. 

You may notice as you have gone to these frozen yogurt places that fro-yo typically has the consistency of soft-serve, maybe a little firmer, and is somewhat less creamy and more tart than regular ice cream. This is in the style of regular yogurt vs. cream. In theory, frozen yogurt and ice cream are just the significantly chilled versions of their refrigerated counterparts. 

This is not true. How do I know? Because I am eating a frozen yogurt right now and it is not the same as fro-yo!

I know. That doesn't make sense. Because frozen yogurt and the general concept of fro-yo are two very different things. I'm talking about a yogurt, Raspberry Yumberry to be exact (yeah, idk what a yumberry is either. Stop worrying about it. It tastes good, and that's all that matters.) which I bought probably a week ago. This yogurt, as it so happens, fell victim to the everyone-in-our-apartment-has-too-much-food incident, which tends to result in fridge-tetris, hard-to-shut-doors, and an inability for the cool air to get around to everything. You may be thinking that this is a problem because the food closest to the door can't get cool. Oddly enough, that is not the problem. The problem is with food getting stuck in the back where all the cool air is also stuck. Hence, the reason I think of that area as the second freezer. 

Other foods of mine have been a victim of this, mainly produce, like the lettuce and my celery (R.I.P. celery). You wouldn't think that freezing would really be much of an issue. Just defrost it, right? WRONG. My poor celery got freakishly floppy and looked bruised, and the lettuce last year was just as much of a disaster. Needless to say, I get a little angry with the fridge, but it's nbd, right?

I suppose I should have realized that my Raspberry Yumberry yogurt, having been knocked back into the second freezer area of the fridge, might have fallen victim to this chilly death. It wasn't until I pulled back the foil that I actually recognized that it was, in fact, frozen. And instead of moving it to the front of the fridge and allowing it to slowly defrost, which may have worked, I kept pulling back the foil. 

This was the wrong decision. 

Somewhere in my head I thought, "This will be fine. It'll be just like fro-yo in a cup. Or like one of those awesome Minute Maid frozen lemonades. Just with a more yogurt-y taste."

WRONG, my friends. SO MUCH WRONGNESS. 

I may have experienced some anger at this realization. 

And what a realization it was.

Turns out, when yogurt freezes, it also separates. Yeah. Into the watery-ish part, and the actual yogurt goop part. To make matters worse, I tried to microwave it slowly, so as not to have warm yogurt. I tried a couple sessions of 30-seconds at 50% power, which were interspersed with spoon jabbings into the little cup. Welcome to shards of ice in yogurt dregs. 

At this point, fearing the imminent yogurt soup, I gave up on the microwave, and decided to stir it into submission. Nothing like a little friction to get things moving slowly, right?

Still so wrong. 

Ultimately, I ended up with some watery room-temperature Raspberry Barfberry melange with little cottage-cheese like curds of stubborn still-frozen yogurt dregs swimming in it.

What I'm really trying to get at is this:
frozen yogurt 
is not the same as 
frozen yogurt.

And you know what the worst part of it all is?

... I still ate it. 

The Feeling of Words

I've got a pretty crazy internal dialogue going on almost all of the time. If I'm not having a silent conversation with myself, I'm most likely imagining some sort of dialogue between myself and another party. This gets real interesting when I'm annoyed with people, and I'll tell you why:

It's because my brain makes up very ... erm ... unique insults.

I think that this must be a pretty typical function, since some of Shakespeare's weirdest (most brilliant?) moments are his insults. There is even an entire online dictionary of his insults: http://www.william-shakespeare.org.uk/shakespeare-insults-dictionary.htm. Not to, in any way, put myself on the same level as Shakespeare, but I think that the human mind gets pretty creative when it wants to tell something else that it sucks.

Unlike Shakespeare's verbose and clever insults, however, mine tend to come in very short phrases, most frequently individual words ... which have absolutely no meaning whatsoever.

Now, you might be getting a little confused right now, and that's completely understandable. You need an example. Let me give you one.

A few days ago, I was perturbed by some person doing some thing that I found rather irritating. Probably something to do with the way that they chose to walk through a hallway or block a path or something similar. My brain said something like this: "Ugh are you serious? Can you not see that there are people here trying to get around you? What's your problem, box elder?"

In case you didn't notice (and you really should have, because I italicized it), the word of that sentence that doesn't make sense is "box elder." Yes, it's technically two words, but it's a single term, so don't get persnickety with me.

As this thought passed through my head, I suddenly forgot about the person doing whatever it was that they were doing, and I wondered what the heck had just come out of my internal mouth. Box elder? Had I heard someone use it that way before? I knew it had something to do with nature, but I couldn't even remember if it was a tree or some kind of stick bug (I just Googled it, and it's a tree... and a bug. Go me).

My first action was to look it up on Urban Dictionary, to see if that had any clarification. (I highly recommend NOT looking up the term "boxelder" on UD, just so you know. It has a "definition," but it's not one you'll have heard, and it's not one you want to hear about.) It clearly had no colloquial meanings that I could have possibly heard.

Really, though, let's think about this. There is no explicable reason for why that word popped into my head at that moment. Who ever even uses that word? I certainly don't, I can't even identify trees, and box elder bugs give me the heebie-geebies ....

So where did it come from? Surprisingly, I think I have an answer for you.

The English language is a delicious one that gives us a lot of different sounds. I'd call it something like ... musically diverse, though not in the traditional sense of the word "music." The production of these sounds creates a physical sensation in our mouths, and, I'd suggest, an emotional response to that physical sensation.

If you don't believe me, read John Keats' ode "To Autumn" out loud, and I dare you not to enjoy the lusciousness of his diction. Your mouth practically explodes. Okay, that's an exaggeration, but you have just got to see what I mean by that. Add on the actual meaning and connotations of each words, and you've practically got a bomb of sensation and meaning sitting right in front of you, waiting for you to immerse yourself in it. I know I'm getting ridiculously English-major-y here, but I can't help it :)

Let's look at a couple of examples of gross words:

1. Moist. Say that one aloud and try not to gag.

2. Flesh. Woof.

3. Pork. Just say it out loud a few times.

4. Puberty. Ehhhhhh.

5. Puss. ... I seem to be selecting a lot of "p" words now ... hmmm ...

6. Nugget.

7. Gluten.

These all just make my mouth feel icky, and then you throw in the meaning of the word, and usually it's just grossie-josie all over the place. Now try to put a bunch of them in a phrase, like "A nugget of moist pork flesh ..." Yeah I'm sorry you all probably just puked. My bad.

You might be wondering right about now what this all has to do with my use of the word "box elder." Say that one out loud a few times. Roll it around in your mouth. Say it with frustration. Annunciate. Throw in a little sarcastic flare. Say the whole phrase if you have to.

If you don't do it, you probably won't get it. And I'm betting most of you probably won't, but I'm telling you, box elder is a very desirable word for the expression of frustration. See, it's got that forceful "b" on the front of it, which gives it power, and that "x" in the middle that gives it a satisfying sting ... The long and short of it is that the physical sensation of saying that word fits really well with the emotion I wanted to express.

But here's the problem: the meaning of the word really detracts from my ability to use it.

I think words are best used, or at least most satisfyingly used, when those three aspects—the emotion being conveyed, the physical sensation and sound of the word, and the meaning of the word—are all aligned.

Let me give you another example. The one that first popped into my head is, unfortunately, not in English. But I think you'll still understand. It comes from the Book of Mormon, 1 Nephi 1:9. In English, the verse reads:

"And it came to pass that he saw One descending out of the midst of heaven, and he beheld that his luster was above that of the sun at noonday."

The word I want to focus on here is "luster." I don't much like it in English, but that word in French is "resplendissement." (Type it into Google Translate (make sure the settings are French --> English) and click "listen" if you want to know how it's properly to be pronounced.) Technically, that word translates to "splendor" in English, which is just another cool effect of translation ... but can't you hear the glistening in that word? It just flows smoothly out of your mouth, and twinkles like stars. Not only is there so much emotion to be conveyed as Nephi is talking about Lehi's vision of Christ, but the sound of the word matches that feeling, and the very meaning of the word. They're all right there together, working to achieve an overall word-experience. It's beautiful! (Yes, I'm geeking out over words right now. Just get over it.)

I guess I don't have too much more to say on the subject. I've probably already said too much. Whatever. If you ever questioned my choice to be an English major, there's your proof that I picked right. :) Hahaha.

Verbal Vomit

There are so many words in my stomach right now. They’ve been writing and twisting around and inside each other for so long now that I think they’ve just become one huge, pulsating mass. (I’m sorry, is this getting graphic?) I just have so much to say, and no where I can say it – not even here, and (dare I say it?) I’m beginning to miss my anonymity.
You know, that’s why this blog happened … so that I could go back into this world of anonymity and stop having my name attached to everything I had to say (I used to be a prolific Facebook Note-writer). Only then I started trusting myself more, trusting other people more, trusting them not to think I was crazy or stupid or emotional or verbose about every silly thing I wanted to talk about, and so I invited them to this blog, and it has become a beautiful thing. I love that there are people who actually read what I have to say. Granted, there aren’t many of you. But I like it just the same. :)
And yet, there’s a bit of a problemo. You see, saying goodbye to anonymity, making my blog available to any wandering eye, not having an iron gate and a guard that only lets selected viewers in … that means I have to be careful about what I say, because I don’t know who is going to read it. And worse, sometimes I do know who is going to read it, and so then I know for sure I can’t write it because you just don’t tell all things to all people. Not all at the same time, at least, and not in the same way.
The same thing seems to have happened to every social networking/blogging thing that I’ve become a part of, and I’m caught in this little Bermuda triangle of wanting to say some things to some people, wanting to make sure other people don’t hear those things, and having this bizarre need to have this all be broadcast out into universe. I might give up on that last part and just write in my journal about it, only here’s the thing: I don’t necessarily want my progeny reading some of this crap. I am blocked on all sides here. Can someone help me out?
Where is that dumpster in the alleyway that I used to be able to barf my guts into? You know, the one that was private, but not too private, and if someone wanted to go look at it, it was their choice and like, ya know, whatever … but nobody you didn’t want to be checking out your Technicolor yawn would be? I kinda miss that.
I suppose the easiest solution would be to simply let go of all the things that are causing the turmoil that has been making me want to deliver a sidewalk pizza like, every single hour of every day for the past week. We’re talking big time thunder-chunder rainbow parfait, splashin’ the hash, lateral cookie toss … I mean it’s ridiculous.
You know what would solve this problem? If people would just say what they think, and what they mean. Because if everyone else was doing it, then I could be doing it, and it wouldn’t be building up inside me like a psychedelic stomach shuttle just waiting for lift-off.
(Side note: I’ve just realized how many times I make reference to vomit on this blog (and based on that fact, probably also in real life) and so I’m considering renaming the blog “Finding the Center of Your Porcelain Chakra” or something … gosh I’m gross sometimes.)

The Diet of a College Student

Here in K1, we pride ourselves on the quality of our meals. We stand proud behind our beautifully displayed pasta bar. We rejoice in our massive exhibition of cupcakes and dipped cocoa spoons. We will ravish your taste buds with our calzones, spaghetti sauces, pizzas, meatballs, and Chinese Buffet Doughnuts. On any given evening, without occasion, we, unlike most college students, will whip up a full blown and incredibly delicious meal. It's a beautiful thing…
… most of the time.
Now, I guess it's not fair to implicate my roommates in this. It's mostly me. I'm really the one to blame here. Why? I'm not really sure. If I had to guess, I'd probably say it's because I either want to go all out, or I just quit. It's kind of like me with cleaning. If I can't do a full-blown spring-cleaning kind of deal, I will probably just ... not. You’d think I’d just get over it and make a quasi-real meal. No. I just go straight down the path of crazy. Here is a list of some of the bad food choices I've made this year:
5. Things Straight Out of the Can
Be it the pineapple tidbits I just finished, the cherry pie filling that left me full of sick, or the jellied cranberry sauce that’s on my list of “never purchase ever again,” I’m semi-notorious for eating stuff out of the can. Idk what’s wrong with it. It saves me from having to do dishes. But it’s not always (read: ever) meant to be eaten that way, so it tends to taste pretty shady. And yet I keep doing it … huh.
4. 7-Up … on Frosted Mini-Spooners

  ⁺⁼

One sunny Saturday morning, I woke up excited for breakfast. As I was about to pour myself bowl of Frosted Mini Spooners (remember, this was back at the beginning of fall semester when I was relishing every moment I had with cereal that didn’t taste like horse feed after a summer of Kashi and Chex. Woof.), I spotted a 2-liter of 7-Up sitting on the counter, and thought, in the middle of my morning intellectual fog, “Soda sweet. Cereal sweet. Sweet plus sweet equal very sweet. Good, yes?” Reason caught up with me for a moment, and said, “Are you serious?” A few seconds passed, and I was unsure of what I would do. Then I said to myself, “I’m in college. I DO WHAT I WANT.” Fortunately, I had enough foresight to only put seven or so Frosted Mini Spooners in my bowl, and only a quarter of a cup of soda in my bowl. Strangely enough, it tasted just like Fruit Loops at first. Then that 7-Up-y tang and carbonated fierceness that Sprite could never harness threw me into a tailspin. Rude.
3. My New Year’s Eve Feast: Ritz crackers, a chocolate Snack Pack pudding, a raspberry peach fruit juice, and peanut butter … I don’t even know what else.
++ +  +  =
Being that I had just flown back home from Christmas break that day, and had spent like 14 hours travelling, it was perfectly acceptable that I didn’t want to go out and party on New Year’s Eve. I’ve never really cared much about the New Year, except how it destroys my erasers because I am constantly having to rewrite the date. I don’t make resolutions, because hey, who wants to be hugely disappointed in themselves come February (or January 5th, as the case may be …) when they realize that they’ve completely failed as a human being, and can’t even successfully give up carbonated beverages for a month (5 days …). Not like I’ve ever tried that, because I have a full-blown addiction to carbonated things, and I would never give them up because I see no reason to, as I have limited access to them.
So as I’m lying on the couch, I realize that I’ve got no groceries, but also that I don’t want to cook, and I’m capital-H Hungry. I’m too lazy to walk to the market (slash forget that it exists), and so I start scavenging the cabinets for things that are edible. What I find are Ritz crackers, a chocolate Snack Pack pudding, some raspberry peach flavor packets, and peanut butter. I might have found a few other things, but I know that those things were definitely there. I collect my items, ashamed of myself, and shut the blinds tight, lock and bolt the front door, fluff the cozy sack, and find pillows, blankets, and my cellphone, and plop down in front of the TV to watch Oceans 11.
But it doesn’t stop here. I know, it already seems bad enough that I’m spending New Year’s Eve alone in my apartment, eating these things, wrapped up in my little cocoon of loser-dom. Oh no. I had to get creative. I’m mixing up my peanut butter and pudding, I’m sloshing juice into my mouth before I can even swallow the cracker (which is, surprisingly enough, not that bad …).
I don’t really remember what else went down in my fit of insanity and sick hunger, but I am not proud. Not proud at all.
2. Straight Sea Salt

I’m one of those people that really likes salt. I like salty popcorn, salty caramel … all sorts of salty things. Now, our apartment has a spice rack, a really cute one, on which there is a bottle that holds (you guessed it) sea salt. And it’s the cool stuff that is in pretty sizeable chunks too. It’s great stuff.
So let’s set the stage for this a little bit. We’ve invited some of the gentlemen from #6 over to watch a movie and make homemade caramel, and we’re having a lovely time with them and a few other people that we didn’t really know. As Logan is stirring up the caramel, I’m chilling in the kitchen and I see this little jar of sea salt. So I start pouring tiny piles into my hand and eating the little pebbles of sea salt. Nbd, right? Well, as I'm going along, my throat kinda starts to burn, but it’s a cold, wet burn (yes, all three of those can be happening at the same time). It was weird, but I didn’t really think anything of it, and I kept eating the sea salt.
Suddenly, I realize that I’m going to barf. What do I do? I walk past everyone straight to the bathroom, kneel down in front of the toilet, and proceed to offer up my oblations to the porcelain god. Then Natalie came in and I was barfing and my face was covered in tears, because even if you’re not distressed, vomiting is one of those things that makes all the liquids in your face start coming out, whether you will it or not. That’s just reality.
1. Campells Chunky Baked Potato with Cheddar and Bacon Bits Soup … on Rice

 ^{+  =}

This was probably the worst possible thing I ever did. Let’s just clarify that shopping hungry isn’t only bad because you want to buy things you don’t need. It’s also bad because suddenly, things that should never, ever look good suddenly look delicious. It’s a good thing we’re not supposed to shop on Sunday, because if I went grocery shopping on Fast Sunday, I’d probably come home with a jar of pickled eggs or pigs’ feet or something. Granted, I was further deceived by the $1 price tag. A meal for $1? I’m on that like white on rice.
Which is funny, because rice is where things start getting really shady… Well, shadier than they already were.
So I make this soup, and realize that it’s not what it was pretending to be. The thing about canned soup is that it looks like there might be some variation in there, but they let it sit in the cans for like a billion years before they try to sell it to the public, and by that point everything has just decided to share flavors and textures, so it’s mostly just this homogenous slop that’s also probably carrying botulism. I realize this, and suddenly also realize, thanks to the stank … I mean steam rising out of the pot it was brewing in, that this soup is very dense with “flavor.” Knowing that my taste buds couldn’t take that kind of intensity, I knew that I had to find some way to stretch the flavor out and dilute it. I was afraid to put water in it, because that would make it grosser. Then I remembered that I had a Tupperware of rice in the fridge from some previous meal. I think to myself, “Soup on rice? It’s kind of like a sauce thing on rice, right?”
WRONG. It was like my mouth was Hiroshima and my own stupidity dropped a starch bomb on me, decimating all hope of happiness for the rest of the night. I was full within like 3 bites, the smell of the Cheese-Whiz-y cheddar “flavor” in the soup was giving me a headache, and I think they used hog tongues to make those bacon bits. So … awful … ughhhhh.

Dreams Gone Awry

Sometimes, we have dreams that go awry. For example, a few nights ago I dreamed that I was kissing Alan Rickman. And no, not this kind of Alan Rickman ...

... who is, ya know, kind of a little bit attractive. He's got a little somethin' somethin' going on. But no. It was not that kind of Alan Rickman. It was definitely more like this:

and maybe a little of this too ... but with clothes ...

Oh. And add some Snape robes in there too. Because that's what he was wearing.

Now, I need to explain something here. It was one of those dreams where you have extremely heightened senses. For about half the dream, I had something stabbing me in the ribs, and when I woke up it took me a minute or so to convince my brain that there was nothing that was actually causing pain, and that I was okay. It had just hurt so bad in my dream that my head couldn't let go of it. So with this dream, as I was kissing this old dude, I was very aware that he had very crusty lips. (And he was a really bad kisser. Just saying. Even in my dream, I wanted it to be over ASAP.)

Alas, I now have this trouble: I am haunted by this dream, and his nasty old crusty-crusts. Just looking at those pictures of him gives me the willies because I got creeped on by him in my dream. I mean he is OLD. So inappropriate and weird. Also, every time I think about it, I have this resurrection of the sensation of those crusty-crusts on my lips, ... which is followed by a swift desire to sanitize and moisturize them. Mine, I mean. As I write this, I am fighting it because my brain keeps saying, "Hey! Remember this?!" And I'm like, "NO FOR THE LOVE OF PETE STOP!!!!! I DON'T WANT TO REMEMBER THAT!!!!!"

Because really, yuck, who would? Unless you're one of those creepy people who thinks Snape is hot, or you're married to him, or you're an old fart who knew who he was before he became one of the most hated (though eventually loved and/or appreciated) characters of the most successful fantasy series of all time. Then maybe you would want to...

But I doubt it. Woof.

You know, I really hate when this happens. When you wake up and say, "That would have been a good dream if ..." for example, instead of kissing Alan Rickman, I was kissing Zac Efron or Ben Barnes or even Taylor Lautner.

But no. It had to be Alan Rickman. And why? I have no freaking idea why. Where does this come from? Do I have a secret crush on Alan Rickman that even I don't know about? Pardon me Alan, but heaven forbid. That would be super creepy and uncomfortable. I mean, there are a thousand other people that I think about on a day to day basis ... Him, not so much. What bizarre recesses of my brain are in control of this?

Does this ever happen to anyone else? I feel like I always have these really intense, memorable, and frequently very strange dreams, but I rarely hear other people talk about theirs. I mean, when I wake up and have a weird dream, rest assured my entire apartment will hear about it within about 12 hours. Probably within 12 minutes, if everyone's awake and at home. That's just the way I roll.

Why do dreams sometimes go awry? Why do we have nightmares and creepy dreams and other things? Why can't all dreams be good? I mean, what purpose are they even serving? Particularly the bad/weird ones? I just don't get it. And I wish they wouldn't. Or that I could forget it when they do ... ughhhhhhhh.

Don't You Hate It When ...

It can happen to anyone, anytime. You slide your feet further under your seat, you clasp your hands together, you try to adjust your desk or move your chair, your stomach makes the gurglies....

And you just know that someone in the near vicinity is going to think you ripped one.

What do you do? This depends on who you're with. If you're with friends, you can laugh it off and explain what happened. If you're with family, you don't even need to say anything. But if you're with strangers ... Well, let me just tell you what happened to me this week.

I just so happened to be sitting in my Biology 100 class, absorbed in Facebook and StumbleUpon, as I am wont to be in the middle of the world's most brain-mushing GE. In the midst of this absorption, it became apparent that it was time to participate in an in-class assignment. We had to write down whether or not we should try to save endangered species, or something dumb like that. I don't really care what it was, because it's not really important. What IS important is that while I was waiting for the TA's to tell us what to do with our papers, my fingers were not occupied with my keyboard. So, as so-called "nervous" people tend to be, I needed something to do with my hands. I often struggle, especially when I'm extremely bored, to keep my hands still. They've got to be doing something. So I was clasping my palms together, squeezing my joints about, which led to my palms squeezing together. This was not a problem, as I had exceptionally dry hands that day. Except something went wrong, and there it went ... the flatulent noise that boys have perfected by the age of seven.

Only it wasn't a perfect one. Not one of the loud, obvious, fake ones that we all know so well. No. This was a terrible one because it was just loud enough to be heard, but quiet enough to sound like I'd tried to sneak a real one. There were people right in front of me ... I knew that they had heard. And I was sitting all by myself, which meant there was no way I could even pretend that the guy next to me was responsible. No. I was trapped.

I had to let them know that it was an accident! That it was the pure product of unfortunate circumstances, the result of the tragic laws of science and vacuums and whatnot!! So what do I do?

I start squeezing my hands together with furious speed.

But they, of course, were unusually dry, and I couldn't get the slightest hint of a sound to eject from my hands. So I lift my hands up a little higher, so that maybe if I can't repeat the sound I just created, then maybe they'd catch a glimpse of my hands and therefore understand that the mystery sound was not a legitimate Bronx cheer, but just the result of air rushing between my palms.

Some time after this, I just gave up.

But don't you hate that moment when you know that people around you think that that sound they just heard could have been the warning bell that their air is about to be befouled? Then, of course, you're in this losing battle with time trying to make the same sound again so people realize that you haven't tried to cropdust them.

Whether it's frantically rubbing your shoes against the floor, tromping all across the wood trying to find the squeaky board again, or squeezing your hands together with enough ferocity to permanently attach them to each other, we'll all do anything to keep people from thinking that we are guilty. And I think it's hilarious.