I’m at Camp…

•June 8, 2007 • Leave a Comment

Man, I got really into this thing for a while and then I just let it drop.  How do I manage to flake so hard on things?

I’m off to camp tomorrow.  I’ve arranged to do “Pre-camp” which is essentially scrubbing out camper bunks and showing parents around.  I’m hosting a tour on Sunday, which should be hysterical given I remember rare to nothing about the camp- other than it being absolute heaven and holy shit I can’t wait for the kids to get there.

This summer I think I’m scheduled to teach improv, sketch as well as a few stand-up work shops.  I had all these awesome ideas for workshops which escape me now.  I’m acutally freakin’ a bit.  I’ve avoided “the comedy scene” for such a length of time now- I don’t know if I remember how this shit works.  And kids can terify me a little- they seem so fragile and maliable, and then there’s one or three that jump out at you with some old school Woody Allen styled theoretical and it’s like KABLAM! Who’s the teacher now bitch! 

I shouldn’t freak.  I’m gonna have a great time.  Jesus what those tweens will do for an abused comedians ego.  Unconditional love all around. and bug spray.

Just found out my comedy partner’s wife is having a baby.  And I started birth control last month.  And I’m peeking at the dawn of a position where I have to be a parent to somebody else’s children.


I’m gonna get me a diary and let my uterus do the writing.

I’m going crazy.  And I FUCKING HATE PACKING.

Here are some items I’m bringing that make me laugh:

-Polaroid camera (for auditions… )

– DVD of ‘Sleep Away Camp’

-Gumby Doll

– Betty Comics (fuck off)

-Nappy Bear

– one pair baby blue Converse; one pair all black.

– Pink T-shirt that reads “I love going to the mall, having slumber parties, talking about boys. BEING WITH MY FRIENDS.” (Sam bought this for me at WalMart last summer).

Once I go, I know I’m not going to want to come back.

Have an awesome summer, damn it.


I’m a lucky bitch.

•May 2, 2007 • Leave a Comment


I’m off to Dublin tomorrow.

I worry recently that I’m going through some sort of hyper manic phase.  I’m just so fucking happy. Even shopping at Duane Reade’s today was a decent experience.

No joke, I almost burst into tears at the Dog Run today.  I was a little overwhelmed, like “Holy shit. Is this really my life?  Did I seriously just spend my  day contentedly running errands and playing with a fucking puppy?” It’s fucking surreal and oh so good.

I’m too tired to even rag on about it.  I’ve got a steady 24 hours of travel starting in just a few hours, and *fingers crossed* the joyous possibility of getting rimmed by airport security at O’Hare, so I’ll leave you with this:

Dig Pupster.  Even though the big dogs come along and steal his stick he doesn’t give a fuck.  He just keeps on wiggling his cute little ass.  I can totally relate.

For the record, that French Bulldog was a total choad.  If I was a puppy, and in the frame of mind I was in this time last year- I would have ripped that fuckers face off. 

But things are so good now.  I’m more content to just mosey away from the assholes and enjoy myself.  I always find new toys to play with and better shit to munch on.


I’m such a lucky bitch.

(post in a week motherfuckers! *smooch!*)

Arguments on Conformed Religion

•April 23, 2007 • 1 Comment


Pupster was adopted via a breeder from the Midwest.  The breeder did an excellent job in training Pupster up until he was 3 months- old enough to be given up to amazing parents like us.  When the breeder sent Pupster to Erica, she also supplied a care package filled with treats, food and toys.

The qualtiy of these toys ranged from uber-bougey to down right weird. 

There was a “Mommy” dog meant to stay in the crate with pup while he sleeps.  “Mommy” has this cool feature where she simulates a heart beat, so the pup thinks he’s curling up with another member of a pack at bedtime and feels less vulnerable.  It’s fucking adorable.

Then there was a blue chew toy, almost twice the size of the pup that resembled a fist, or some sort of apparatus one would buy at a head shop in Chelsea. Alright.  Whatever choices Bunny makes in lieu of his sexuality- we will not judge.


But then, there’s the matter of Bunder’s “Nappy” doll.  Nappy is a little white dog in baby blue pajamas who holds a blanky and keeps pup company in his playpen (aka “Darfur”).  Until recently, Pupster has always fancied Nappy dog enough to hump him while in one of his pick-me-up-and-love-me-you-pretentious-bitch fits.   Then one day, Pupster was nibbling Nappy during a makeout session, and came across this doll’s special feature.

Nappy dog is actually a “Jesus freak”. Rather- when you press a button on Nappy’s paw, he recites THE LORDS PRAYER.

I shit you not friend…OBSERVE:

Being raised a Catholic, I feel I understand the value of conformed religion.  I think there is a positive aspect to harboring a spiritual belief system, and using certian principles to reinforce a humanitarian connection amongst the community.  I mean, whatever your religion or beleif- again, I don’t judge.

I DO NOT however belive in implanting automatronic creepy ass voices inside stuffed animals that are meant for dogs… and neither does Pupster.

Sweet Jesus.  Seriously?

According to Erica and Lindsay- they were just sitting quietly in the studio working when they heard this ‘noise’.  Pupster was crying and they had no fucking idea where it was coming from.  Who could ever suspect that? Even creepier, the batteries in the Nappy doll were running low, so the voice wound down, lower and slower like a cassette tape getting eaten by a car stereo. 

Ultimately, the Lord’s Prayer resounded from nowhere, and was spoken by a demon-like voice. Shit scary. 

Jews would never do that to puppies… or would they?!

Wild Irish Rose

•April 22, 2007 • Leave a Comment

“What’s in a name? Were a rose of any other name, would it not smell as sweet?”

Yes motherfucker.  Here’s why… 

My real name is Rosemary.  Friends call me “Rosie”.  Old friends, childhood classmates and relatives call me “Rory”. Through terms of nominology and the crazy ass cultural loyalty of my Irish Catholic family I developed some severe gender and identity issues.

My grandmother- my Mom’s mom, Mary- was a diehard Irish republican.  I’m third generation Irish, meaning Mary was actually born in Brooklyn, New York but carried on like she was birthed in a gentry townhouse in Mayo. 

To best describe my grandmother I would combine the character of Hiacynth Bucket from the BBC Series “Keeping up Appearences” with Marlon Brando’s Godfather.  Now tattoo the tri-colors on her ass and give her a done up brogue.  This was my lace curtian, New York Irish grandmother, Mary.

Mary set the edict for future generations that all Mitchell descendents should carry a traditional, propper Irish Catholic name.  When my father, (pure bred Mayflower American, with a hint of Hungarian Russian blood) wanted to name me “Natasha”- my grandmother quickly deployed relatives to deal with the situation. 

Over a few beers, my Unlce Jack tried to convince my Dad to let my Mom name me.  My Dad was stubborn bastard and wouldn’t give up with out a fight, or a bribe.  Uncle Jack bartered his prized season tickets to the New York Giants (Lower Mezzanine, 30 yards center from the endzone) in exchange for  MY NAME.  

When I was three years old, my father took me to Mulcahey’s Canteen- a watering whole in New Jersey that was frequented by fellow truckers.  Two women approached him to inquire about the adorable baby girl he was toting (me). 

“What’s her name?”


“Isn’t Rory a boy’s name? It must be  a nickname, right? What’s her real name?”

“Yeah… Can you watch her for a minute?”

My Dad fucking left me, a toddler, with two strange women in a bar so he could  find a pay phone and call my mother.  My Mother then explained to my Dad, that my real name was Rosemary. Rory was developed from the RO in Rose and the RY in mary.

Rory. A boy’s name. Dont’ fucking come at me with a reference to the Gilmore Girls– or I will fucking cut you.

When I was thirteen I was preparing for my Confirmation into the Catholic Church. It’s customary to pick a Catholic name-or adopt the name of a character generated from the Bible when you are confirmed.  I wanted the name Magdalene- I thought it was pretty name. My Mother negated my decision immediately because Mary Magdelene was “a whore“.

We compromised and I picked “Virgina”.  So my mother conferred- “Great.  So, how will your full Catholic name sound when announced?  Rosemary Patrica Virginia…”

“Who is Rosemary?”

“You’re Rosemary. It’s the name on your birth certificate.”

What the fuck? How do you not tell your fucking kid what their real name is?  How does that happen?

I will reference that episode of Family Ties, where Skippy finds out he was adopted. Remember that?  Seriously.  I was ruthlessly mocked by kids gorwing up because of my fucking name- (just like fuckin’ skippy). There was so much information falling into place so quickly it was hard to wrap my head around. 

After a few years of reinvoking my real name, and the passing of both my mother and grandmother, I tried to compile the puzzle pieces of my identity.  I remembered the old Irish folk song my grandmother used to sing to me when I was a just a “wee colleeni”.  Then I went so far as to have the title of said song, tattooed on my hip.

I’m the “Wild Irish Rose”.

It’s okay. Go ahead and laugh… every motherfuckin’ Irishman who’s ever seen me in my skivvy’s has laughed at me too. (And there were a lot of them… maybe too many.) 

Wild Irish Rose is also the name of a very, very bad malt liquer.  If you ever have a hankerin’ for pure ripple, please allow me to recommend this beverage.

I drank my fair share of this swill back in the day and I am still thankful I did not go blind.  vomitous. 

Apparently, the liquer inspired some shitty punk bands and a even a young Bono.  And according to wikipedia,  ‘The drink was also the title of a song by country legend George Jones, which tells the story of a veteran returning from war, who due to his diminished mental health, becomes a homeless drunk.’


But nothing compares to the ever embarrassing and ultimately dorky revisions of the original ballad that my grandmother would sing.   

They may sing of their roses, which by other names,
Would smell just as sweetly, they say.
But I know that my Rose would never consent
To have that sweet name taken away.
Her glances are shy when e’er I pass by
The bower where my true love grows,
And my one wish has been that some day I may win
The heart of my wild Irish Rose.

My wild Irish Rose, the sweetest flower that grows.
You may search everywhere, but none can compare with my wild Irish Rose.
My wild Irish Rose, the dearest flower that grows,
And some day for my sake, she may let me take the bloom from my wild Irish Rose.

The bloom has totally been taken-motherfuckers.  I beleive my humiliation was ineveitbale, regardless of what people choose to call me. 

I’m still pretty fuckin’ sweet though.

Dear Chewbacca…

•April 20, 2007 • 1 Comment


You need to acknowledge your son.

He needs to understand where he comes from.

We are not contacting you in solicitation of any money or miscellaneous parental support.

We simply want you to reach out to the child you created and tell him that you love him.  He wants to know his father.

There are certain things that pseudo lesbian cosmopolitan women can not teach a young person of his breed.  Like how to navigate the Millenium Falcon, smuggle goods back to Rebel territory and most importantly stop rubbing his but on the carpet everytime pooh gets stuck to the dread lock on his ass.

Just look at how disconnected your son has become.

He needs you. He needs his Daddy.

We are good mothers, and we will continue to care for this budding creature, no matter what.  Regardless of the characters that come and go form his life throughout the course of his development, as God as our witness, Bunder will know he is loved. 

But even all the love we can offer may never fill the void in his life, that you have left.

And with foresight regarding all the trials this young man will have to face without ever meeting his father, we find it equally deplorable and unfortunate that you choose to withhold the true identity of his biological birth mother.  It is at this time, we choose to inform you, Chewbacca, that members of a privately hired investigation team have gathered photgraphic evidence of your realtionship with this… woman (?). 


Please disclose her name to we who act as Bunder’s legal guardians,  lest we are forced to pursue futher legal action.  We do not want your involvement in your son’s life to evolve from a class action paternity suit- but we are prepared to file for such proceedings.

Furthermore, we would hate to have to inform Lumpy and Mala ofthis addition to their family before they are ready to understand it. And don’t you think that Itchy will resent never having known his grandson?


 You are a sick son of a bitch Chewbacca.

My Stalkers were “Okay”

•April 19, 2007 • 1 Comment

I’ve been engaging in a lot of “relationship-y” conversations recently. Some of my girlfriends have weathered storms lately with men and they concluded over cocktails last night that “Love is Dead”. I actually disagree. I believe love is alive- but in a cognitive vegetative state sucking applesauce through a straw while dumb bitches like us resort to changing its bedpan.

When the terminally pessimistic conversation like this comes up women sure enough resort to trying to identify themselves as men might see them. “Guys don’t approach me.” “I’m just not the type of girl that guys hit on.” That’s bullshit. If you have a pulse and pussy I’m sure you’ve dealt with the geriatric figment of love. It was definitely kicking up a storm and doing the Charleston back in its day- you just weren’t emotionally present enough to notice it.

I can think of a few instances where I’ve receive unwarranted attention from guys and it almost gave me hope—in a really fucked up way. For every asshole I fell for who needlessly made me feel like shit- I tried to reassure myself that they must be complimented by at least one good dude to take it all back. Every pompous ass arrogant motherfucker in the universe needs to have some sort of doppelganger…preferably with a motorcycle and an adorable puppy. In some cases- considering all my amazing guy friends today I’ve seen this theory to be true.

But in other instances, some of the “good dudes” are just as bad as the bad guys. Because even the sweet and tender have a vicious or strange streak we women can choose to ignore. And sometimes when you ignore something- even something as bad as old love- its condition can get much worse.

Growing up in New Jersey I was always anything but confident in the realm of dealing with boys. In high school I had a very selective stream of guy friends or “boy crews”. There were the Farrington brothers who grew up, just up the street from me in Mountainside- and their friends, and the “punk” boys from Berkley Heights whom I pretty much worshiped. I was beyond shy and awkward, and any facet of attention from these dudes made me feel like a fucking princess. I never conceived any hope of actually dating any of them. I chose to simply rely on them like a pack of brothers who looked out for me. I was very comfortable being their seemingly asexual lil’ sis.

When I was fifteen I went to a party. I met a dude and some weird shit happened. Needless to say the next morning, my then best friend Mariah was downstairs kicking said dude in the side of the ribs while wearing a pair of steal toe boots and her bra wrapped around her neck. I could hear Mariah and the guy screaming from inside the house, while I waited in my friend Aaron’s car. Mariah ran out brandishing a half empty gallon of vodka yelling “Not my fucking friends!” She climbed in the front seat and asked me if I wanted to go back in and get a proper apology. I declined and asked that we just make our way home.

Sure enough stories of the incident spread through town like a herpes outbreak. There was so much talk of how effectively Mariah handled the situation by simply kicking the shit out of the guy and part of me agreed. I made a serious effort to keep my mouth shut about it and put it behind me. I didn’t want to be the focus of the story or what happened and even embellished Mariah in her Thunderdome styled rage when it came up. At one point I was informed by Alley Ciasuli’s little sister that “some girl was raped by a dude from Springfield”. I quickly informed her that “the girl” was definitely not raped and to quit being such a viral little shit head about something that didn’t concern her.

What bothered me most about the incident wasn’t the dude, or how the situation went down, but how everyone responded to it. Through all the talk, and all the people who knew about what actually happened that night at the party- I can’t recall one person other than my best girlfriends asking me if I was okay. Until one of the Farrington’s friends- this kid Forrest (I shit you not- the spitting image of a young Anthony Michael Hall) managed to ask me about it. “So was this guy really all over you or something? I heard you puked in his mouth.” I tried to make it clear it wasn’t up for discussion- and of course Forrest drove it home by adding “You’re just not the type of girl that guys get worked up about. I mean, who would try something like that with you?”

Seriously man, what the fuck was that about?

I befell a few more strange encounters with the opposite sex, before I got the hell out of Jerz. I endured some quirky make out sessions that incited receipt of some really awful mix tapes, and once got felt up in the back of a car by a pseudo gay man. My guy friends were always sort of surprised when I told them about these events. Given all the handed down psychological charms from these dudes, I had the defacto knowledge that guys just weren’t that interested in a girl “like me”. By the time I finally became a freshman at NYU I was honestly pretty cool with that.

Orientation week I got drunk- often. And I met another dude, that we’ll call “Sam”. Sam was a film major and pretty dorky. He had a really awkward lisp and a fast way of talking that continually threw me off. The one night we hung out I kept thinking he was hitting on me under his breath and just ignored his advances. We ended up drinking forties with some friends in a sophomore suite before I started falling asleep on my friend Pete’s bed. I then decided to meet my roommates for the first time while visibly intoxicated and semi-social. Sam walked me out and we got in the elevator. There was brief moment where someone leaned in for a kiss and I shuffled back like a pouncing dog and laughed. “Nope. That’s stupid. G’night!” and I was off to bed.

The events that followed this particular encounter were retarded to say the least. The guy got my number out of the dorm directory and left something like 5 messages for me the next day- a few voicemails and notes from my roommates. I called him back once, to say I was busy figuring out my new schedule and he actually offered to walk me around campus and help me find my classrooms- despite the fact he hadn’t been to any of his classes yet. He stopped by my room a few times to leave more messages with my roommates. Over the course of several days there were more voicemails and a few handwritten notes with stick figures hugging on them- it got weird.

My roommates Debbie and Christina finally sat me down to talk to me about it. They asked me if I was purposely avoiding the guy and if so could I maybe let him know he needed to stop coming around. He was becoming a sort of nuisance and I should “let him down nicely”. The whole thing was totally over my head at the time. I had never had a guy pay so much attention to me and couldn’t begin to fathom why.

One evening we made our way down to the dining hall for dinner and there was Sam sitting with some friends at a table- he was deeply engaged in conversation. I tried to wave a soft hello, (I’m forever awkward at greetings) and I guess it went unnoticed. As I passed by his table I heard yelling. “So what! So you think you’re too good for me?! You BITCH!” I turned and Sam was standing there shouting, at me, finger pointed so everyone in the dining hall knew where his anger was directed. The friends at his table were trying to calm him down and have him take a seat. I decided to leave.

Seriously man, what the fuck was that about?

My roommates were sweet and brought me up some food. I was under lock down trying to avoid this guy. Apparently he wanted everyone in the dorm to know what a pretentious bitch I was- at least that’s what he told Debbie when she rebutted his outburst with a scolding. The girls told me I should talk to the RA and housing office about it and I immediately said no. He seemed like a nice enough guy at first- I just didn’t want to hang out with him. I sort of felt bad for him and so I didn’t want to make it an issue.

Just then Sam came knocking at our door (Christina could see him through the peep hole) and I hid in the bathroom. He wanted to apologize and Debbie insisted the best thing for him to do was leave. I could hear him getting more and more frustrated with her and I was sort of shook up about it. Now it was suddenly an issue to deal with and I agreed that I would tell the Housing officer about him. Debbie and Christina said they would act as witnesses to his behavior.

I put in what I thought was very passive report with my RA about this weird kid from downstairs. But my roommates filed more assertive claims, about erratic messages and stopping by at all hours of the night- things that I was never present for or aware of. After a month or so the situation seemed to blow over and I never really saw the guy. I befriended the dorm security guard Santiago (a massively bull dykish Dominican woman) and she insisted I never need to worry about men giving me a hard time on her watch. Cool, I guess.

Sophomore year I was placed in Rubin Hall again, and lived with two more girls in a suite. That year I worked at the front desk, handing out mail and toilet paper to dormers after classes. I went to clock in one day and my co-worker told me the Housing Director, our boss Carmine, wanted to talk to me about something confidential so I should run upstairs.

My boss informed me that campus security was worried I might have another potential stalker. Another stalker? Carmine said she had read my case from the year before about a dormer who yelled obscenities at me in the dining hall and I was so far removed from the experience it took me a while to figure out what the fuck she was talking about. I had never associated the term stalker to my fleeting and non-existent romance with Sam.

More pressing, now there was some other dude, not affiliated with the school, who was coming around the front desk everyday asking about me. Campus security has a policy about not giving out numbers and the stranger went so far as to try and bribe the front desk for my info. Over the course of two weeks he sat outside during lunch time waiting for me to wander in or out of the building, and he never left his name.

Come on guys. Why are you all so fucking stupid? Seriously.

At first I was of course bothered by this news. Santiago, my faithful lesbian friend was operating all visitor sign-ins on a code red class of efficiency. As I worked evenings at the front desk I became more and more paranoid every time a guy I didn’t recognize waltzed in to ring their girlfriend. Who the fuck was this dude, and why was he so obsessed with me? I had no real guy friends at this point. I was almost as curmudgeonly anti-social with all New Yorkers as I was with any man who might take interest in me.

But guys just don’t like me in that way, right? So what was I scared of?

I finally worked up the courage to enquire with the other front desk staff about my supposed stalker. They described him as tall, with dark hair and big eyes. My other coworker and good friend Gail said he actually seemed like a really nice, relatively pleasant guy. She also told me he wore the same black hooded sweatshirt everyday, over a striped sweater.

Fuckin’ Jeremy. You ass.

My “stalker” turned out to be one of my unrequited loves from high school. Jeremy was my favorite brother from the Berkley Heights crew, Mariah’s ex-boyfriend, and the heart wrenching object of my affection for the duration of my time in Jerz. I couldn’t ask for anyone so wanted, to try and obsessively hunt me down.

I informed everyone related to “the case” that I was certain who the stranger was and allowed for them to give out my contact information. Jeremy had just returned form tour with his band, and was taking courses at a vocational sound studio around the corner from my dorm. He said he stopped by the dorm everyday relying on his intuition, a gut feeling that I was somehow living there even though he no way of knowing for sure. To an insecure twat like me, his stalking gesture was unbelievably flattering and yes, romantic.

We dated for a few months before he dumped me- driving the stake through what I considered the heart of the inevitable 80’s movie happy ending. I quickly reverted to assuming guys just didn’t like me that way through out our break up. Now I at least had a real relationship under my belt.

Years later I ended I up living in a virtual squat in Brooklyn on the corner of South 2nd and Marcy Avenue. (The WORST possible corner of Williamsburg). One day I came home to find Sam, my first “stalker” walking into the flat below mine. Holy shit. We were neighbors again.

Sam put down his bag as he wrestled with his keys and noticed me out of the corner of his eye. “Hey! What’s up?!” He seemed, surprisingly normal. Without encouraging thoughts of any bad history I exchanged pleasantries with him. He told me his roommates were friends from NYU, as were mine. We laughed about the crazy landlord and the rat-like cat creature that lived between our floor boards. There was no mention of anything caustic and all was generally cool.

I would run into Sam now and again at bars in the neighborhood. Once he seemed really insistent in telling me about his girlfriend. He never said her name- he just continually mentioned his “girlfriend” and the things he and his “girlfriend” did… because she was his “girlfriend”. Okay. That’s cool.

According to Jeremy’s Friendster profile he’s in a relationship. (Who’s stalking who now mother fuckah?! Ah- HA!)
Anyway, I’m glad that both these dudes have moved on to greener pastures or whatever. There are a few other guys that I could recount since my stalkee days of college who seemed to be more infatuated with me than I would gage normal. But that’s just me- I field all my male encounters now through marks of self loathing versus self respect, insecurity coupled with paranoia and a just dash of pessimism. I’ve been driven past of a point of reading men with any normalcy. And I refuse to read myself as normal either.  We’re all sort of assholes.


I need to escort Love to the TV room now so he can watch Wheel of Fortune.

My Wedding Day

•April 14, 2007 • 1 Comment

I never day-dreamed about getting married like other young girls supposedly did.

But, when I was a very little girl I managed to make my Dad a promise.

I promised that for my wedding day (it was decided then that this event would surely happen) I would find a Minister with vocal likeness to 1960’s NFL commentater John Facenda, “The Voice of God”, to announce me as I walked down the isle. 

Here is an MP3 clip of John Facenda reading his famous rendition of “Autumn Wind”: tribute to the Oakland Raiders

“The Autumn wind is a pirate
Blustering in from sea
With a rollicking song he sweeps along
Swaggering boisterously.

His face is weatherbeaten
He wears a hooded sash
With a silver hat about his head
And a bristling black mustache

He growls as he storms the country
A villain big and bold
And the trees all shake and quiver and quake
As he robs them of their gold.

The Autumn wind is a RAIDER
Pillaging just for fun
He’ll knock you ’round and upside down
And laugh when he’s conquered and won.”

This Raider character sounds like the kind of asshole I’d hook up with. It would seem only fitting for my big day.

Although, I could never pay hommage to this poem on my wedding day. To honor the Oakland Raiders in such a way would be sacrelige.  My Dad was a diehard NY Giants fan. He claimed I was the good luck charm that helped him clean up in the ’86 Knights of Columbus pool- the year the Giants won the SuperBowl.  Only fives year old then, I went with him to every home game that season and learned to love what I totally didn’t understand- the magesty of American football.

The general idea is that if I find this “Voice of God” Minister, I would also need to ensure our vows are written in the tone of the classic NFL film documentary series.


“She was a young defiant woman, bred from the industrial wares of New Jersey. A working girl, she wore a blue collar- though not dainty, she learned to earn her keep and found her man on the playing field of life. Rosemary took him down like a rookie tightend, waltzing aimlessly outside the endzone. But the game was far from finished…”

And then the John Facenda/priest/whatever would read “vows” for my husband.

I am 99% positive I will never get married.