Burnt Pizza

My dad is making food. Homemade pizza. With the beef he cooked last week and onions and sweetcorn and pineapple pieces. The tomato base is Doritos salsa dip and he's using a weird mixture of Weight watchers cream cheese and Mature cheddar, toppings on the thickest dough ever. It is baking in the oven. The smell is having a banquet up my nostrils. Food, glorious food.

I feel bad for wanting to eat. I feel bad for hating eating. I feel sick over the fact I have to eat eventually. I've been eating, but restricting but I haven't exercised enough. I feel disappointed that my eating disorder isn't life-threatening. I know thats stupid and naive. There's millions of girls out there, starving to an early grave. They might wish they were me. I wouldn't. I want to be them. At least I wouldn't have to bother trying to find reasons for anything anymore. I made a stupid appointment with the college counsellor for next Thurs, just to update her from Feb since I left.

Dad is cutting up the pizza. It's a bit burnt, but he likes things a bit burnt. He's very proud of himself. "Isn't it wicked!" he says. Turns out he didn't follow my advice of baking the dough blind before cooking the pizza. It's back in the oven. I'm not hungry. I'm not hungry. Really. I wouldn't mind some whisky though - straight. But I know that almost everytime I get drunk, its usually on my own and I always harm myself, and worse than usual since I just don't care in my drunkeness. So I'm trying very hard to cut back. I don't want make things worse with myself. The pizza is being left in the oven now, to settle for ten minutes. Maybe when we check on it, time will have surpassed itself and it will covered in green mould, then I won't have to eat anything.

I don't know what my Dad knows, but he's been on my case to eat more. Usually its to eat less and less, less and less. I think he'd love me more if I was thin. One time he said to me when I was 12 that I would be a lot prettier if I was thinner. So many crappy things have been said to me because of my weight, but that remark has stayed with and won't let go.

Thankfully, I don't have to eat. The pizza is so burnt that you can't cut with your knife and fork and. Otherwise it wasn't too bad, and hey if we were stuck for entertainment it would have made a good substitute drum. I managed to eat cornflakes instead. Yay me.

Randomness Rules in my Roost

I am feeling much better. I'm not sure what provoked the change. I thought I was moving soon on Friday after Dad mentioned it on Tues as we rushed into IKEA at half 9. The place was still chaotic, but we parked in the taxi section anyway and barged through the main exit where all the gear was (if any officer stopped Dad he'd pretend to be from Africa and couldn't speak english - it's worked before!) All I wanted to do was watch the good ol' O.C and I still haven't had a chance yet, but never mind...randomness rules down here.

Maybe its because its July and we've had heatwave weather and thunderstorms, but everything is a little weird. Then again, being at RUTC means that randomness rules, and with only a week to go before we can sleep in until 1pm, just like the good old days, things will be a bit manic. The new student union is strapped for cash, but we've managed to hook us up with a drama show. I think I've been on about it all before, but now I have the job of writng some serious scripts - can't wait. I can purge everything in there perhaps.

Oh! And one last bit of news. In English, we were annotating blogs. From blogspot. We did some posts from Bagdad Burning. The teacher started going on how it was a new form of diary writing and how up to date it was and how this was important in terms of global communication. We had to talk about lexical choices (style and vocabulary) and syntax shit. It was really weird. And people knew nothing about it. They couldn't understand why you would make such private thoughts public. Obviously, no one except my closest friends know about my blog, so I pretended to be a big fan. They all thought I was weird, as I started recommended everybody. I don't care. Dads going on about how if this doesn't I could be completely homeless. Lesson #1 on how to stay positive for the future: Somewhere there's a big wide door waiting for you to come home.

Anyway, there's been mysterious drum kits in the foyer, people wondering round college in tudor-style clothes and strangest of all, on Tues while me and some lovely clever friends of mine lounged on the grass some cute ginger lass in a black silk negligee and a mini-black cardigan strode onto the green and told everyone to be quiet. Then a teacher in a sweeping black dress came up with a camera and started filming as the ginger girl in the negligee began to recite Ancient Greek dialogue. Of course.

Also, on the way home, I was immersed into Haruki Murakami. I am addicted to him, and I always have my book - The Wind Up Bird Chronicle - just in case someone else knows who I'm talking about. I bought some CDs in the HMV sale - Sex Pistols and Doves for a fiver, and the first Libertines album in six quid. Then I bought three books - two of Sarah Waters and one of this new asian one.

Oh, I went to my gay group tonight. I haven't had such a laugh for months, I'm serious. We're making a mini film with tranvestites, afro wigs and 60s blond wigs, gorgeous Jan dressed as a psychic (she's so fit, but I don't fancy her...hmmph). There were two new people - 14 years old! Oh, I only thought I was bisexual. I didn't even think of getting together with anyone. Jess has already had two and she's recovering from anorexia. She actually reminds me a lot of Alice, a good friend of mine and ex-girlfriend - going to a girls school and being raised Catholic. There's been so many jokes
("I want you hot inside me"
"Well, I'd..er, have to get some lube then"
"Don't worry I'm loose"
"Like a bucket loose?"
"Like Oxford Street") - online gay sex talk, of course.

I am dying with laughter, and Jess is really nice and I'm eating less, not so much. I'm in a fabby mood. I even got to read three chapters of Wind Up Bird on the bus. I'd be glad to not use those anymore. But I'll miss knowing the area, and having an Aunty round the corner who can be useful when you're short of all sorts of supplies etc. I'll only be in Feltham for a year, then I'm off really to Uni. Sussex or Manchester, methinks. And gosh, I got a thingy - erm...a er...personal statement! to write. For tomorrow. Bugger...

Night.

Day 1 at Barcelona

Day 1

We decide to use the Metro. It’ll be an experience, we hope, we say. And we get more determined in believing this as we got more and more lost and knackered.

I remembered that the journey would be like going from Hatton Cross to Piccadilly Circus so as not to be too expectant. But the place was gorgeous. There were many blocks of flats – it was 1:30pm, therefore siesta time and all the blinds were up. Each block of flats had the same sheet and the same colour – either all green, or red, sometimes blue with the odd pink or yellow sheet. The immediate sense of identity made me feel as if I didn’t stand out a mile. Also, with being right by Barcelona’s biggest tourist pull I could sit on the pedestrian square and people watch all day. Write some stories.

I’m in bed and I can hear the rumble of the city. I’ve been a fat pig and ate too much, but I’ll pay for it later. There are strange bangs and puffs of smoke from windows sometimes, the odd firework. All types work and dine here. There’s even the odd white owl gliding by the ginormous! red moon. I’ve never seen one before, really. Rats scuttle by the lake searching for nuts, but I don’t mind them here. I feel so released and content despite living on the top (5th) floor with a dodgy lift and a staircase that is crippling (as I found after shopping the supermarche).

No, I feel at home here, in this city as it doesn’t feel completely dissimilar. And its friendly and political and an architectural supermodel – who’s a little strange. But I love that in any city, anything and anybody. It even has a sublime ice cream shop called Gaudi’s next door. I could live here forever.

Back from Barcelona

There's so many things wrong with my body it's ridiculous: I've got some weird lump under my left eyelid and it hurts every time I blink; my legs keep seizing up, I'm freezing, I've got lumps (mosquito bites?) everywhere on my arms and hands and a scarier lump under my armpit.

But thats not the point. I just feel like moaning. On the contrary, Barcelona was fantastic and I was surprised. I knew there was some architecture but I didn't think that our apartment on top of this five storey flat (in Barca there is no houses) would be so lovely and PINK, neither that it would be right outside the Sagrada Familia - the famous Cathedral by Gaudi, the only one in the world still in construction. At night it gets lit up and you can see all of the delicious detail. Also, at night the top windows light up with some eerie green light and as you watch the cathedral to-be in the pedrestrain square, drinking your Sex on the Beach you start to dream and wonder about all the ghostly monks and nuns and bishops - the brick was lain in 1869, after all. After I ate (and I've been eating properly all holiday to keep the peace between me and Dad, but that's over now.) I really loved it there. I wore long sleeves all week, and no one really noticed, I didn't feel so judged, I didn't feel as if I stood out like a sore thumb or I didn't exist at all. I just felt like a part of the city.

On the first day we were so exhausted we hardly did anything. We were supposed to relax even though I was up till 2-4am each night reading the fifth Harry Potter book or a bit of Middlesex by Eugenides. I did relax on the veranda where it's a little scary to look over but you can people watch and really enjoy yourself. Most strenuating was the Metro (air-conditioned, a welcome change from the London Undergroud - otherwise I found it misleading at times.)

On the second and third day we went round on tour buses round Barca getting off now and then. I loved the contrast with mountains and the ocean. It wasn't even too busy. One of my favourite moments was getting into this beach restaurant place and watching all of these muscle mary's enjoy their beers with their boyfriends while my bro and Dad chattered away.

But anway, I wrote a couple of mini-essays and I'll write them up tomorrow when I've got my mind off death. I failed to do that in Barcelona, but that was the fault of the aeroplanes and using cable cars over 100 feet up that felt overcrowded and fireworks barely missing your ears, and with scary lifts that with anyone taller than 4"2, claustrophobia is rife.

Nah, I loved the place. I have to go back, I really do. I didn't see any museums (apart from the one in the Sagrade Famillia), I didn't go to any art galleries and I certainly didn't shop. Also, I really loved the language. I don't know much spanish, and they didn't know much ingles so we had to work together. I liked it like that as we had to compromise and really try to connect. Anyway, I'm slightly sozzled and very down. And on a private note, :) Disgruntled Moose for your esteemed email (I'm not even sure that makes sense). One thing's for certain: this Barcelona trip has really loosened my creativity...

Allow Me to Reintroduce Myself

This is an email to my lovely CarpeDM who asked in my other post why I cut and purge. I don't really know, but I think this helps explain some things to my lovely readers. Tomorrow I'm off to Barcelona for four days and I won't be posting until Saturday. Barcelona is very spanish speaking, very hot, and is nearby the beach. A magnaminous multidude of things could go wrong. For one thing, I'm forgetting my swimsuit and my t-shirts etc.

It could be fun as well, I guess. There's so much beautiful architecture and landscaping by this Gaudi guy, and there's the Futureventura (sp?) and all the restaurants and gay clubs but since I'm going with my family I can't have that much fun. Maybe another time I could go with my friends. Anyways, I'm off to write some last emails, have some conversations, read up on Lioness and CarpeDM and pack! I'll see you soon, you pretty people.

Any-hoo....

I thought I'd email you this time. You're pretty much a good, caring friend now.

I'm sorry. Firstly and all. I don't like hurting people, so I hurt myself instead. I don't know why I got this double whammy. To tell you the truth they come in one and a pair. When I started cutting I was already bulumic and an overeater. I was fucked up from the start...so they always came hand in hand. One always compensates for the other. One is always stronger than the other.

I have a feeling I have depression, but the people who can help me - doctors, counsellors, psychiatrists - don't believe me. See, when I see these people without knowing I become very bright and chatty and witty, even if...no matter how bad the last night was. They don't see me as they do on my blog, or how Ria worries about me. They think I'm a very intelligent, 'pretty', witty, chatty, confident girl who's surrounded by friends and is simply going through a rough patch. They don't seem to listen to the fact that is now my fifth year of depression. It doesn't matter. So after these sessions I'm so depressed and exhausted I cut. Also, they can't see any problems past my weight so I have those eating problems too. Doctors don't want to give me prescription drugs, and I'm not sure I want them.

So, since I can't get through to doctors etc to see its a chemical imbalance and not an emotional whim, I'm a little screwed. I'm sorry to worry you, but I hate this situation I've been painted in. It just feels as if there's no way out for me, no resolution. I wish it didn't feel that way.

Betty xxx

Actually I'm not OK

Have you ever had lots of good things happen to you at the same time (The Live 8 tickets, the Museum internship next year, going to Barcelona, losing weight through devious methods.) but you still feel crap. Partly because you don't feel you deserve it, and partly because you just feel like shit.

I was purging last night after eating dinner (frankfurter, cheese, baked beans, toast) and a lot more blood than usual came up. I knew it was a superficial cut, but I needed to talk to somebody and I couldn't talk to Ria as she was so happy. Not just yet.

I called Samaritans (they must know my voice by now, the amount of times I've called them). And it was this London guy who sounded 38 and had just come off the training line for he was coming at me with ideas. But of course, as a seasoned veteran I had seen through these ideas. I can never understand telling a very depressed person to get up, and give the scissors which they are addicted to, to move and push themselves physically. To in effect, transfer from one addiction to another. After all, these days I'm so tired I haven't been able to revise properly, since I just can't sleep.

I'm not ok. As time goes on, as you try things like self-affirmation techniques, self help books, doctors, psychiatrists, school/college counsellors, purging, exercise, or just trying to bloody well get over it. As these don't work the Salesmen plant a thought in your brain that this mad woman, this woman with at least 200 cuts on her body, this person who thinks nothing of hurting the person she loves most (Ria) and her closest friends (Nik, Alice) repeatedly. The person who's supposed to be gifted but is really a fat bitch who can't look at herself in the mirror without bursting into tears or slapping herself. This person with an emotional attachment to a pair of scissors. This person who is giving up. Is this me forever? Is this me forever?

I don't know. Ria doesn't know. The Samaritan guy doesn't know: he gets annoyed that I can't be fixed. I need to love myself, to like myself, and when is that supposed to happen? How? When?

How much longer do I have before I become Me, this thing - whatever forever?

How do I change?

I miss Ria already. Ria, you know what I said. I love you too much to lose you. Barcelona...

Good News! Good News everybody!

I have something very important to tell you all...brace yourselves, all of you.

I have won Live 8 tickets! The gig of my generation! For possibly, hopefully, the convention of my generation (which is fucked up - they can't even agree on the food. Cherie Blair doesn't want lobster so they have to change the whole menu for their banquet. And they want to get some sumptuous caviar from Iran as its the cheapest from there, but of course as Bush has denounced it as another bloody axis of evil so they have to spend more money. Why bother eating? Whats the point? How can they feel real conviction for these people who have to drink infested muddy water when they have the maddening superiority to hassle themselves over lobster and caviar. Bah. Maybe Edinburgh shouldn't serve them at all, but give them peasant African grub or deep fried pizza or something like that. And these people are going to solve poverty.) I cannot wait. I mean, its the best one of the lot - the Hyde Park gig. Where else will you find Coldplay, Razorlight, Muse, Michael Jackson (possibly) and PINK FLOYD on the same day. W00T! W00T, indeed.

Secondly, you may have read about my Global Graduates interview, for which I was late for and knew pitifully little about art and all the meaning of art. I got through!!! This was 30 people out of 100 out of the thousands who could have taken part in my age group. It means that I will be busy some Saturdays, and I don't know how that'll affect me. I have to go now, but I'll add to my good news. Apparently I'm gifted again. Not again.

Guess Who's Not Guilty?

Blogger is probably going haywire at this moment, but just so you know, Michael Jackson is now completely innocent. Right now all I can think is all of the offensive jokes made over the years by all of the comedians and normal people. I wonder if the worst ones will have to apologise?

Let's hope he's really innocent - it's taken the stuffing out of him, and anyways he still sleeps in bed with strangers' children. He's broke and many many people are out to sue him. He probably won't be staying in Neverland for much longer, and with the fight for custody of all of his children you could say it's the beginning of the end for Jackson. We'll see how he copes with this. After all, all that Michael Jackson needs is a worldwide hit song/album.

Betty x

Back to the Etruscans

I'm back at college and I'm posting in the library. Why is that everytime I'm in here there's idiots messing around for no reason, and why are they always black? There's just as many white idiots in this college, but they avoid the library and smoke dope/smack in the green bits, away from the library, where I'm trying to concentrate.

Today has been dull. I've been looking through universities and looking at courses. Considering that if I drop Classics I'll be predicted AAA, I can pretty much go for wherever I want. I used to want to go to Oxford - since I was quite little really, it was the only university I knew. But now, and due to my horrid, negative state of mind I figure Oxford will the final catalyst and kill me. Or, I will turn psycho, against my introverted scorn sensiblities and blow up the university. Could I really bear that?
These are the universities I've narrowed down to:

- Goldsmiths
- Sussex
- Manchester
- Sheffield
- Warwick
- Durham?
- Cardiff?
- Oxford?
- Edinburgh?
- London School of Economics?

So far my favourite is Sussex. It's right by Brighton so I can be comfortable in my sexuality, its a beach town, which I find strangely ocmforting, its in the top 60 in the world, and is one of the best in Britain and it's the only decent place that does Gender Studies and International relations. So, I aim for it, and I think I'll get there. I hope to be thin when I get there as well.

Right now, I'm a size 18. That is one big ass and thighs. My stomach refuses to go down as well. I hate it all. My face is okay because I have big brown eyes, clear (enough) skin and apparentely a "winning" smile, but my goddamn fat cheeks hide my high cheek bones. All weekend, at around midnight I go on an exericse binge. I use small weights (water bottles) and do aerobics, or lots of kicks and punches. Get all the anger out. I tend to do that for as long as I can, which is usually an hour and a half. Also, I have to eat as little as I can. Today I had cornflakes, a cup of tea, toast, half a choc-fudge-nut cake (Jesus) and an apple. Obviously too much - about 700-750 calories. I have to eat less. Much, much less. About 1000 a day at the most and exercise off 800 of those. Well, thats the plan. And I have to plan it. I have to keep focus. I cannot stand being this fat bitch anymore. I can't stand being in my own skin. Apparentely over-excessive exercise (I once exercised so hard I made myself throw up) is another form of bulumia. Good. At least I'll actually lose some weight this time.

Today I've been a bitch to Rich. I don't mean to. He's going through a shit time at the moment and I don't feel as if I'm helping. Well, I know I'm not helping. The problem is communication. I find it impossible to get anyone's attention at a literal level, or on the phone, or by email (wait thats...) and even when I do I have what I've started to call "the sleeping frog in my frog". It was put there one night by my Salesmen and so I can never communicate my problems or how I'm feeling. Since the sleeping frog fits snugly and goes a little crazy sometimes (crazy...frog...if you're from Britain you'll understand my sentiment entirely) then there's only space for gibberish, expletives or brilliant bullshit. So I cut my thigh, I cut my upper arm and I cut some more because I can't speak, and I let the marks speak for me.

And God, I've got Barcelona next week. How dare I complain. I mean load sof people want to go on holiday, stuck in their office jobs or waiting tables. I feel for them. Yet it'll be hot an I'll be in long sleeves looking stupid. I'm a water baby, and there'll be expecting me to dive into the sea by the BEACH in my SWIMMING OUTFIT, and when I go shopping they'll be expecting me to buy SUMMER clothes. This is going to go on for four days. Maybe I could fake food poisoning and I'll have to stay in. Maybe I'll just forget to buy such things and concentrate on presents for my friends instead. Maybe I'll just avoid the beach and go shopping or look at paintings, or write! It's only four days. It's only four days.

Oh, and the title? Rich bunked off this seminar of the Etruscans (an ancient civilisation he loves) in Oxford for a very sweet and pretty girl. On the Monday he just decided to go reading the books instead during our Ancient Greek lesson. It's the thing I've enjoyed most all day. O Zeus!

Okay, Okay, I'm going to try and make sense now

Yesterday was really great. I actually had my birthday celebrated. Me, Rich and Alex went to a Tandoori restaurant. I had a chicken biriyani and peshwari naan, of which I gave half away. I'm enjoying not eating too much. I've been motivated by the fact that the more I gain weight, the bigger my cup size gets. Soon enough I'll be approached for porn films and that.

Afterwards, we thought 'what the hell' and went to this Cinema - I loved it as it was an old cinema but still all the overpriced goodness of the big cinemas. In Richmond we watched Sin City (18 hehe). Twas very violent, but I loved it was shot in black and white, with optional colour for some women's dresses or for eyes. Also, blood was stark white - the brightest thing on the screen, and it looked like paint. I just loved being part of a group (even if was just me and Alex - Rich had to go home), especially as my ticket was paid for in honour of my birthday. I even looked half decent. It was amazing!

Yet, today, today...crashed a little. I was torn between trying to write my novel or cleaning up. Because I woke late I didn't have to eat till 3. This got very excited, but I was so tired I just listened to Razorlight all day, dreaming of crashing their set at the Hyde Park Live 8 because BNP men were giving out leaflets and when you complained, the patrolling officer called you a nigger bitch (what, I'm imaginative), only to have snogged Johnny Borrell on stage etc etc.

I was trying to keep some of whatever good mood I had yesterday, but it was going, going. I tried to call all of my friends but they were out somewhere, getting the girl, going on the internet, doing so many other important things. And of course whenever you went downstairs your Dad would start moaning at you because you didn't indulge in his DIY. So I "infulged" in tiredness and misery (inFulged - inDulged in Feeling. It's a new word. Use it). I just curled up, not feeling hungry, throwing up stomach acid, crying. I didn't realise some of my friends and others had been commenting and that of course I wasn't alone. No one is really alone. Just look at PostSecret. But sometimes I feel like I'm inside a cage.

I just know that I'm going...dissociating...there's a page on this from RYL which makes the most sense, but not right now. I'm going to have to go and be alone again. Dad keeps nagging, nagging, nagging. But I'll keep trying to stay on track and stay in this world for reality's sake. Wait, sorry, I said I'd make sense this time. Never mind.

Nightlife

I finished my exams a couple of days ago. (Un)fortunately I can't actually remember anything I wrote. For one exam I wrote 21 pages of politically minded rubbish. But never mind, I can now actually sleep until August.

So, of course I haven't been able to think, or philosophize because of my brother's yobbish shouting, or my Dad's nagging over my non-existent homework. I guess right now I'm just trying to figure out my life, what to do with myself. I can't even type right now cos my brother won't shut up, and I have sorts of thoughts in my head that is cramming up and clogging up any chance of doing anything useful like getting a job or figuring out what my life is all about.

During exams I didn't start revising until the night before. Before then it was impossible as I was busy, or the world just got in my fucking way. I know I didn't the A's I could have. I know - Boo Hoo.

All I do now is miss people. All I want to do is slice myself into strips. Why won't my brother shut the fuck up? What makes it worse is this psychological laringitis thing. The truth is I could slip on my wrists and with my dying breath I'd apologise for ruining your shirt. That sort of thing.

Before I couldn't speak about my problems because I was afraid nothing would happen, nothing would change and I'd still feel exactly the same. I haven't done or said anything, but I'm drinking again. Thankfully mostly I'm not alone: on Weds, after fucking up History I went to Liz's house and drank coke and vodka. Yesterdays was my friend's Birthday BBQ - it was also a bit of a Pimms party. But that was middle-class teenager fun. My brother is still here annoying me. For a King's College student studying Electrical Engineer, he's incredibly narrow-minded sometimes. A women's place is in the home, everything is my fault and diaries aren't supposed to have poetry or stories inside them because they aren't talking about themselves. I think he's the most uncreative, unsympathetic guy I know, and thats why I hate him so much sometimes.

Lately I've been going on late-night excursions. I would wait for my Dad to start snoring, then I would sneak downstairs and watch Tv, or eat cornflakes and help myself to my brother's birthday cake. Most of the time I drink Dad's whisky. Now, however, I have to go out and celebrate my birthday with two of my college friends and avoid bursting into tears, expelling my deepest fears, or worse. This sleeping frog in my throat may be destroying me, but at least I can disappear for a while. I just wish feeling as if I matter.

Happy Birthday

When you wake up and you forget the day you've had,
When your mum forgets to call and you're feeling kinda sad
And when your kitchen's in bits so you spend your b'day
Flitting in-between states of mind, your love affair at play -
You and B&Q.
Things ain't going your way.
But you press on with it
- You've got a house to save
From crumbling walls and stiffeners
With which you can crack a smile
But your mouth can't dilate -
Daddy's nearby and you can't understand such things.

It doesn't matter that you're 17
The world fucks up around you
As a grown up child, going mad, going wild,
You're on trial,
With your creator haggling you
Your close-knit, half retreated community crossexaming you,
Your friends and family peering down at you;
Forget the bitty kitchen,
Forget B&Q - there's no time for stop cocks
And gold watches,
Don't bother with phone calls and the infinite layers of communication
Why trifle with birthdays -
You're getting older.
What the fuck is going to happen with your life?
For someone will cross continents to defy you,
Someone will walk around broken glass to reach you
And someone may jump mountains to slap you
And manufacture walls and cages for you to walk into.

Someone may love you.
Who are they?

Your eyes may get wet,
Your mind may go round the bend with worry
But stop right there, and fuck up your life
For you are never who you are right now
Forever.

Some people may be aware (and some even less aware) that I had a birthday yesterday - my 17th, in fact. Anyway, I've just failed my Classics exam and I have even littler time to prepare for my Politics exam, since the kitchen is still in bits...(pipe busted, but its fixed now) but I did get to watch some women's football. I think its a lesbian thing. Anyway, I wrote a poem about it. I realise now, that when you're 17, you don't really mess up that badly: the world messes up around you and you blindly join in.