I’m Not a Country Song


I have often wondered why my parents weren’t lighthouse keepers in Maine. Not because either of my parents have expressed an interest in being or becoming a lighthouse keeper. The fixation on lighthouses and Maine are in fact both preferences I lean to. But it’s simply that my family is an unusual and creative bunch who all seem to have other worldly inclinations. Almost all my siblings mirror my love of travel and adventure and hopeful possibility.

So it seems to me of all the places my parents could have settled, the logical fit would’ve been somewhere epic and worthy of an epic backdrop to accompany our family’s grandiose dreams. But my parents chose Fowlerville, MI: a flat, farming community with a population of less than 3,000. And I won’t bemoan Fowlerville here as that’s not my job and I wouldn’t want to for anyone who truly enjoys Fowlerville. However, I will say I have never related to this place much. Furthermore it has never really felt like my home. Or at least the home of my heart.

Yes, my physical home resides here and these four walls bring me joy because within them are every memory from my youth and my family. But if ever I felt I was coming home, that place has always been and always will be Marquette, MI, or really as soon as I cross the Mackinac Bridge into the Upper Peninsula. Sure it isn’t the place that raised me, but it is the place that I can feel in my veins when I’m away from it and when I am there I always feel I’m where I belong. I was explaining this to my friend Meg yesterday as I feel badly that I don’t have more of an attachment to the place I was raised.

“I don’t know why I can’t relate to this place. I think I am missing something in my DNA that makes me fond of the place that raised me. And it upsets me, because I want to. I just can’t. I mean all the country songs are always going on about the place that raised them and how proud they are. And I don’t have that.”

“Because you’re not a country song,” Meg pointed out matter-of-factly.

My eyes lit up like that explained everything. I am not a country song! Of course I’m not. That’s it. I thought it was beautiful and succinct. And it relieved me to have an explanation of sorts to help me understand my compulsion to leave this place once and for all and never look back. The thing is lately I have felt like a displaced person and it has been unsettling to a certain extent. I had been staying with my parents for awhile and then I was staying at my cousins for a spell. And then with the constant travel I do whether it be to Chicago, the Yoop, Florida, wherever I fancy or get invited to, my car became a sort of collect all for the in-between.

And that isn’t the part that bothers me at all. In fact it is specifically why I bought this SUV, for it’s roomy interior and ability to easily be converted into a sleeping space. It is that nowhere in particular feels like my home right now. I am growing up (begrudgingly I will admit) and finding a place of my own feels very important to me. I just am not sure where exactly that place is, yet I want to find it. I am simply very afraid.

My whole life, despite being a fanciful dreamer of the first order, I have had a plan. I planned to go to college. I planned on being a writer. I planned on moving to New York City. Check, check, check. Then the plan got a little topsy-turvy. I left New York and for the first time in my life felt adrift with the what next. Lucky for me my boyfriend at the time made it very easy for me by taking the problem out of my hands and asking me to move in with him. He lived on the East Coast and better yet he said he wanted to marry me.

That settled that. I was living in view of the Blue Ridge Mountains and a half hour (if we didn’t hit traffic, which of course was rare) drive into Washington D.C. I loved my new home, I loved my boyfriend and I loved the idea of what our life could be. Me, pursuing my writing, and then settling in closer to the mountains with my sir and starting a family. Except that plan didn’t work either. And the only plan I had after that was to keep my head above water. And in doing so, I found I had a whole lot left in me even if all my plans had crumbled like day-old coffee cake.

My favorite personal trainer, EJ, had asked me while I was still in training for The Biggest Loser, what my plan was then. And I responded that my plan was to be footloose and fancy-free. And his response was, “That’s just your fancy way of saying you’re a poor planner.” I have always found this very hysterical, because by my own admission, yeah I can be a pretty poor planner. But in other ways, I make the things I want to happen, happen. If I want something bad enough, I plan and I make it a reality. Seriously. How do you think I got on national television?

The Biggest Loser producers didn’t knock on my door and say, “Hey Cassandra, we heard you were chubby and lookin’ for a change. Would you like to join our ranks?” Nope. I showed up in Detroit at 5 a.m. for the casting call and fuckin dazzled them. And then I continued to put in the work for months until I made the show and then worked tirelessly for seven more months while on the show to lose 92 pounds. And then I worked my much smaller arse off to get to New York City.

The problem here and now is, sure I am going out West and sure that’s as natural a choice for me as my choosing to drink strong black coffee every morning. It’s that I don’t know what the plan is after that… Because I still want the things I have always wanted. To be a smash writing sensation and ya know eventually locate a man who thinks I’m a humorous delight and then wants to really lock it down and impregnate me five times and then once more for good measure.

And truly my real problem isn’t a lack of a plan or not knowing what the next move is after mountains meeting the sea. The problem always has been my incessant worry. Every single friend I have points this out to me. Meditate more. Quit stressing. Stop worrying. Why do you need to have a plan? These were all things that were said to me only yesterday by varying friends. All nice friends who care about my happiness and well-being.

I just can’t actually comprehend being a person who doesn’t fret over the future like an overprotective hen clucking over her chicks. What, just go West and hope for the best? Really what else can I do though? I am as prone to hope as I am to worry. So I may as well choose hope and try and strangle the worry, though she is an elusive and bothersome little gnat.

In this case, my main man God really says it best and I should just shut up and listen to him.

“For I know the plans I have for you,” declares the Lord, “plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future.” Jeremiah 29:11

The Wilds


I haven’t been very secretive about the fact that I have been unraveling a bit lately. Mostly because when it comes to my own secrets, keeping them to myself feels like the equivalent of keeping myself in a cage. And if you know me well, you’ll understand I am wild through and through and cages are always meant to be smashed to smithereens. In fact my dad and I got into a little spat about this the other day. Not my wildness per se, but the wilds in general. My dad is the most easy-going, genial person that could exist. And the person I am least likely to ever argue with. That is unless you bring up politics as my father is a staunch republican.

And that is all well and good, but I get a bee in my bonnet when he turns anything to do with the environment into a black and white political issue. Being that the environment, animals, the sea and forests, along with their protection is one of my greatest passions, I naturally get a little sassy on their behalf. One of the points I made to my father is caring about the environment or saving the whales isn’t because I am a hippy (though I kind of am) or that the liberal media (his words) have brainwashed me. It is something that has been with me as far back as I can remember. I relayed the story of my first encounter with zoos. I cannot remember how old I was, but I was surely very young. I think my first visit to the zoo was the Potter Park Zoo in Lansing. For anyone who is not familiar with this particular zoo, it can be described as dismal at best.

I remember walking around in the sticky heat, feeling pretty nonplussed and irritated. But then I got to the lions. There was the king of the jungle in his shabby cage, mostly concrete with a few sprigs of matted down grass in the corners and a faux rock looming behind him. He looked hot, depressed and void of any of the regal airs he might’ve once possessed. But you know what the worst offense of all was? The flies buzzing around his eyes, while he looked lifelessly back at me. The poor lad didn’t even have a roar left in him to alert those pesky flies to back the fuck off. My heart was broken. And immediately following my sadness at the lion’s sadness was rage. I hated zoos. Why was I here? But worse why was this lion here? I have been loathe to set foot in a zoo ever since.

Now I asked my father, was it the liberal media that got me to see the lion that way? Or was it my bleeding heart? Or what about when in the fifth grade I read an article about drier states wanting to siphon water from my beloved Great Lakes? I wanted to write to congress. I wanted to become an environmental lawyer. I wanted to tell them to just move to Michigan and get over themselves. The Great Lakes were ours!

Nope, the liberal media hasn’t influenced me, I was simply made this way. I have always understood I have an innate wildness running through my veins, like bulls charging the streets of Pamplona. Even animals that lack a physical cage—the horses that pull carriages in Central Park for instance—still have that sadness in their eyes that the lion had that day. They are shackled to an existence that is sucking their soul dry. I couldn’t lovingly touch the lions mane and convey to him that I wanted to set him free, but every time I see a horse that looks this way, I touch his face, his mane and look into his eyes and nod my understanding. Maybe you can’t be set free, sweet sir. Maybe if I set you free I’d get thrown in jail and then where would we both be? But I’ll tell you what I’ll do guys. I will spend my life being as free as you ought to be. And I very much equate being free with being wild.

And maybe my wildness is getting a little out of hand. Maybe I should grow up and get a 9 to 5 and a 401K. But much like my unwavering understanding as a youngster that no longer cared to frequent zoos, I know what my wildness is telling me. It is the reason I feel trapped by my circumstances and somewhat unhinged by my failures. I have put myself in a cage thinking I am limited by those failures and circumstances when in fact I should be emboldened by them.

No one cares about a successful girl who is super fetching and laughs gaily all the time and wears oversize fisherman sweaters and has a flat midsection and a funny, flannel-wearing financier boyfriend and a really great house-trained husky and pays all her bills on time and everything is as easy as peach pie. Who is that girl and who cares about her?

Give me the slightly erratic, maybe a little insecure girl who does laugh, but not gaily, maybe with a slight hyena like hysteria, and who falls asleep in the bathtub because life has wore her right out and who makes lemon blueberry cake out of all her lemons and has a pudgy midsection but still goes after it with gusto: the love life, the career, the hopes of a flat midsection but who the fuck knows, the freedom and the wildness, all of it. Give me that girl. I like her story better anyway.

And then when that girl does get the beau, the book deal and the husky—the husky that pees all over the floor, the book deal that was ten years in the making and the beau that puts his socks in the hamper inside out—well she’ll appreciate all of it in the most exquisitely human way. And she’ll understand the importance of her story being flawed and rife with uncertainty and therefore very much worth telling.

What Tinder Taught Me


Tinder does not have the most pristine reputation. At least in my humble opinion and many of those that I have asked. It seems rather notorious for being a hook-up site. Hence why I had never had any desire whatsoever to go on it, as that is so far from being my style it might as well be khaki pants—insert deep body shudders here.

However, for the sake of argument, a friend of mine who was having seeming success on this site encouraged me to try and see before making a judgement call. I still wasn’t convinced so I talked to my sister. All voices of reason come from two sets of people: my sisters or my besties. If they give me the go-ahead, I will usually go ahead.

My sis said go ahead. Give it a whirl. And she pointed out, if it was ridiculous, I could always write about it. Brilliantly said, little Kia. So that is what I did. I tried Tinder for one week. Fine I made it four days, deleted it, but not before getting one date, tried it again for one more day and then promptly deleted it again. So five days.

For the sake of investigative journalism I definitely didn’t give it enough time, I will admit that. However, for the sake of my spirit, the run-ins with the skeevy and the mean-spirited, five days was more than enough for this girl. And more than enough to make up my mind that my guy is most definitely not on Tinder.

Here is what I found:

There are a handful of nice guys on there, to be fair. Sure I met one guy who is absolutely hilarious and likes bacon even more than I do. We still chat, and he feels like someone who could easily be my friend.

Then there was my date. Also a nice guy who was the first to ask to read my writing as my profile boldly stated: I am a writer who likes to pen painfully awkward tales, usually from my youth. He got major points for not only asking about my writing but then going ahead and reading it and being impressed by it. This earned him a date. His attempt to take me to Zingerman’s Delicatessen after driving an hour to meet me earned him a kiss. Why am I not dating this guy? Well to be fair, I could have easily went on a few more dates with him as I found him enjoyable, attractive and intelligent, however, despite him asking me on a second date, he did proceed to slowly stop texting me before one could ever commence. This is for the best though, as we were of far differing minds when it came to my main man, God and so it never would’ve worked anyway. Also I am moving to the West in two months. And lastly, I am so comfortable with what I bring to the table that any man who loses interest barely registers on my radar, as I am supremely glad to be me and whoever I end up with should be glad too, as he’s partnering up with a delightful weirdo who will be loyal to him for life.

Now besides these two fellas there was a smattering of other decently nice guys, but nothing that went far. But here is where I am sorry to introduce the bad guys.

Like the ones who thought starting a conversation with me by insulting me was a good idea. I had one guy make a snarky remark about my liking craft beer and how cliché that was. Pass. The hipsters don’t have a monopoly on good taste.

Then another who ripped into me for liking God. I also noted that I liked God a great deal in my profile. This guy went on a several sentence long rant (before I could delete him of course) saying I was a grown adult woman who believed in fairy tales, boogeymen and must be pretentious because what about Buddhism and Islam? Uhhhhhh. I shouldn’t have dignified his hideousness or his absolute nonsense with a response, but I couldn’t help myself and replied with, Whoa dude, I have barely finished my morning cup of coffee. No need for the attack. I believe in God. You are entitled to your beliefs as am I. Also how are you getting that I am anti-Buddhism or any other religion simply because I said I believe in God?

Even though I thought this was calm and sage considering I was already shaking, this only upset him further, to which he went on more ranting tirades, like the mere thought of someone believing in God was the most offensive thing he’d ever heard. Yowza. I honestly feel bad for this guy’s angry existence. And I know I should’ve taken the calm, christianly approach and said something cheeky like I’m sorry you feel that way; I will pray for you. Or even, God still loves you even though you’re a flaming asshole. But I chose the quickest exit strategy which simply was, see ya asshole and unmatched him immediately.

This isn’t even to speak of the men who had messaged me to clarify where I stood on the sex thing. Oy vey. My friend who insists Tinder isn’t a hook-up site defends these guys as non-perverts because they aren’t trapping girls into sex, contrarily they are being forthright in what they want. So I suppose in fairness and non-judgement, yes, these men are entitled to their sexcapades. It just isn’t something I am into or even love coming face to face with. It kind of makes me sad for humanity. I don’t see why I would ever have sex with someone casually without him then wanting to spoon me all night long, take me to brunch the next morning and then play a rousing game of Scrabble for good measure. One night stands don’t allow for that and that seriously bums me out, man. If you’re getting my body, you really better be all kinds of interested in my brain and my soul.

And I am not so doe-eyed that I believe the world doesn’t have people in it who are interested in straight sex or making people feel bad about God. Man, we have freaking ISIS about and they are scary and mean-spirited as shit. So I get it. But I like the world when it’s better than that and I also like being surrounded by people who want to be better than that. Yeah, most people want to be better than ISIS, duh. But the fact remains that in my daily life I feel surrounded by all sorts of beauty, kindness and love.

It was very 50/50 on Tinder. And I don’t want to willingly put myself in any place where people make me feel the polar opposite of goodness. My mom has this phrase for when my sisters and I would bemoan not finding a good man. And she’d ask where we were looking, (hinting that if we were looking in bars and not her constant suggestion of the hardware store then…) replying with, “well you’re not going to find strawberries in an onion patch.”

And my friends, I feel like Tinder is a giant onion patch.

I am looking for a guy who loves God a whole bunch, has a sense of humor in that he enjoys being a delightful weirdo as much as I do and likes the written word a great deal, because, well, that’s important to me. The rest can be dealt with in time, like my propensity to want to run to the mountains or the sea at any given moment or whether we have five babies or six. Actually, we’ll definitely have six as I like even numbers when it comes to children.

So what Tinder really taught me: I have everything I need in life right this very minute and I don’t feel one bit deprived if that doesn’t include a boyfriend.

I have God, hope for the West, really tasty sweet potatoes and chocolate, the best family a girl could dream of, Perrault children that melt my heart and hold their arms out to me when they see me, books, fine wine, craft beer, fancy coffee, Moon River on record, Hemingway, friends that like me and my wit, a world where the Northern Lights, Lake Superior and beards exist and a heartbeat. If this is what I have, well I have all I could need and then-some. So thanks God. And thank you Tinder. I couldn’t possibly have appreciated how good I have it, if you didn’t show me exactly what I am not looking for.

Welcome to My Boat


I must admit:

That I have listened to this song

perhaps 1,000 times on repeat. It’s not even that it is saying anything in particular that’s comforting to my life circumstances right now, but something about the tempo and repetition are very soothing. Also I do this every time I discover a new song I like. I have to listen to it over and over and over again until I borderline hate it and want to vomit from hearing it. I think I have slight psychotic tendencies.

And I crumpled in the shower last night in a crouched yoga-esque position and cried. I watched the mascara drop off my eyelashes in blackened wet stars. I fixated on those black stars. I watched them one after another form into a supernova. That distracted me, the explosions of black bursts, merging and then dissipating on the shower floor. The shower that doesn’t belong to me. It belongs to my cousin, Heather who has so graciously adopted me in my time of interim running away.

Every time I am in my car, I want to keep going. I want to overdraw my checking account 17 times over gunning it to the West—my holy land. But then I realize the contents of my car, which include about a dozen throw pillows, half of my board game collection, an assortment of novels, one sports bra, a pair of workout pants and mismatched socks, my friend Ryan’s bulky yet incredibly warm winter boots and snowshoes, a puffy vest and a few unpaid bills would not exactly be conducive to my starting life over as a pioneer. Or maybe these things are the best parcels of change, because I am past giving a damn. However, I have a real complex with letting people down regarding my commitments. And my fear of a deeply overdrawn checking account scares me out of actually doing it.

It’s the fear—which really speaks to a lack of faith—that is really getting to me right now. I remember before I broke up with my ex having a similar conversation about the fear with my sister. I shook with it and expressed my concerns of what if… What if I gave up this love and never got another… What if? My sister said it was that fear and that uncertainty which was giving me pause. She posed this question, “If you knew without a doubt that your person, your right person was out there and ready for you, would you take the leap? Would you leave?” I answered immediately with a yes. And that was my answer. Moving forward in faith, knowing that maybe I was giving up on a love and maybe there wouldn’t be another, but… but my ever hopeful spirit and my ever loving God led me to believe that I wasn’t making a mistake and love would find me again when it was good and ready.

I am more than manic and riddled with anxiety right now. I find myself wanting to do unspeakably grim things (not off myself, cool your jets, my life isn’t that bad. No just maybe drink heavily or find an opium den) that belie the level of self-love and self-respect I have acquired with years of practice. Don’t fret, though. I only dabble in those thoughts, I can’t act on them, because I have too much moral conviction. Sometimes my mom likes to claim she dropped the ball on raising us right because I had premarital sex with both my ex-boyfriends (I would not take it back, even with my first ex who was not a nice guy, because it made me who I am today, so cheers to mistakes, man) but clearly, she didn’t drop the ball because if I were a different kind of girl I would be mixing Xanax and whiskey right now and having loads of scandalous sex to cope with my existential crisis. However, what I did instead was eat a McDonald’s double cheeseburger and feel sufficiently lousy that I am mildly poisoning my insides and then went to Barnes and Noble and picked up a slew of books with titles like, You’re Loved No Matter What and Spotting Improbable Moments of Grace and Jesus I Need You, and A Year With C.S. Lewis. So, dropped the ball, my arse, mom.

Writing candidly about how I want to cope with mindless sex and whiskey and how I cry in the shower and how somehow despite my mass uncertainty and fear I do still love myself and God deeply enough to not go wildly off the deep end, well it makes me feel a whole bunch better. And I hope if you are having even a fraction of a crisis right now you feel better that you cannot possible be the only one in this boat. Welcome to my boat. There is room for you in here. And because my life has offered me up some turbulent seas as of late, well, I like to think I am a pretty good sailor.

Why Hello Rock Bottom


“Rock bottom became the solid foundation on which I rebuilt my life.
J.K. Rowling

This has been my mantra for the past few weeks. Mostly because things keep seeming to spiral out of my control and I have to chuckle (alright fine when I am not having smallish panic attacks, brutalizing myself in the gym for the endorphin rush, or clutching a novel to my chest while staring at the stars repeating this other mantra of

“In the midst of winter, I found there was, within me, an invincible summer.”
-Albert Camus)

because that is my approach to life. Make everything funny. Always. I have to make it funny otherwise my life would just be a tragedy and I cannot stand for that. It has always been and always will be a comedy. Or in this case a tragic comedy, but still. Comedy. Long live the laughter. Lucille Ball would understand.

Here are the tragedies I have been trying to re-work. They are in no order of importance.

I remember a few years back seeing my mom pluck a hair from her chin with tweezers and shuddering (sorry mom). I thought, this is the end of the line man. When hair decides to grow from your chin. I thought I’d have until I was at least forty before facing that certain fate. Nah. It’s happening now. Not cool, body, seriously not cool. I already have cellulite, so you’d think I would’ve caught a break on all other forms of horrifying body problems, but alas, I now have to tweeze my chin hair too. I am not exactly sure how to make this funny other than sharing my shame, so, please, I hope your Tuesday is better knowing you don’t have chin hair… yet. It’s coming for all the rest of you beasts! I swear it.

I applied for a job at Country Living thinking it was a total shot in the dark. I actually heard back from a recruiter. She wanted to see my work. Then the editor-in-chief emailed me and asked me to do some pitches for the magazine. Suffice it to say, all my hopeful dream writing job eggs were thrown into that basket immediately. I was all but putting down a deposit on an apartment in Birmingham when I got the notice that I did not get the job. I was planking at the gym at the time. I had to calmly finish my plank and walk out to my car so I could snivel like a baby in the privacy of my vehicle. Crying while planking would have just made me look like I couldn’t handle a plank, and please. I can plank all day.

Okay it’s all cool, guys. So I have rogue chin hairs and I didn’t get a great magazine job on my 70th (or is it my 700th) try. I am so much tougher than crying over broken dream eggs. Seriously don’t even worry about me.


I got an email from my current editor a few days ago telling me they were discontinuing my health blog as they were going in a different direction. Clearly my having chin hair and cellulite and being 28 living with my parents in my mom’s Etsy room in a bed with no sheets, (because honestly I can’t even find the energy to bother and that actually happens to be one of my biggest pet peeves) was not rock bottom. This had to be it, I realized with an almost palpable relief. I am finally at rock bottom, so I can stop worrying about my body and my career and my errant hair, or the lack thereof on my head. Now I am in the deepest bowels and every idiot knows this place of utter wretched manure* is where the real growth begins. In the midst of my quaking panic, I clung to the idea that my life was now akin to Detroit, a phoenix just waiting to rise from the ashes. This was good. It was all good. I kept panic at bay with a toothpick and though my head wobbled from the effort, I held it high anyway.

*“They say the seeds of what we do are in all of us, but it always seemed to me that in those who make jokes in life, the seeds are covered with better soil and with a higher grade of manure.”
-Ernest Hemingway (sent to me so thoughtfully this morn by one Mr. Amazing Hulz)

But wait…

I know, I know, if I had a puppy, right now would be the time for a villainous ruffian to come by and kick it for shits. But no, I don’t have a puppy, but I do have this love…

And I had one too many cocktails in my beloved Detroit city on Saturday and thought it’d be wise to send him a nice message. I thought it was just pleasant drunken banter. Sure with maybe some undertones of my love for him, but he already knows I love him, as we say it to each other all the time, so it seemed harmless enough. Nope. The next morning I awoke to questions from him, followed by a painfully uncomfortable phone call. I refused to clarify exactly what my drunken ramblings meant and he didn’t press the issue very hard. I think neither of us truly wanted to go down that road, because we’ve been down it once before and it didn’t end well last time and it won’t end well this time. So we’re both in denial. Or maybe he isn’t. Or maybe I am. But either way, I think those cocktails unlocked Pandora’s box and what was inside can’t be shoved back in, even for the good of humanity, or for salvaging what he have. If he was unclear on the depths of my love for him, this wildly confessional blog ought to really tidy that up. (And I am sorry for that sir. If I could actually be sorry for loving someone such as yourself, which in fact I could not). But now… now I am officially at rock bottom, but a little scared to say so, because I am fearful that one of my legs might fall off for good measure.

Here are the swell facts, however, because in the mire that is my life at the moment, there is always room for a wee bit of swell. I have never been so scared, which also makes me very bold and perhaps bordering right back around to fearless, because now I don’t feel I have all that much to lose. Plans are being put into action with more attention to detail than I reserve for shaving my legs when I have a date.

I am going to seize the day. And do some very, very uncomfortable things like sell my beloved belongings, which I already started to part with today. Insert emotional upheaval here. And head West, which after all, was the plan all along. And yeah, yeah, some might say I am just a runaway and maybe I ought to stay and face the music. But I faced the music today, that music being Gregory Alan Isakov and this lyric in particular:

I picked up all the arrowheads off buffalo trails of the Indians
the Oklahoma sky was cutting through
along the tracks with the Runaway
he just talks and talks and talks
honey, I’m just trying to find my way to you

I choked back sobs not on the word runaway, but on the words Oklahoma sky, knowing without a shadow of a doubt, that yes I will go West because I am a runaway and at 28 I am just as comfortable with this knowledge as I am with having thighs that will always touch. Also, this wouldn’t be the first time G.A.I has brought me to tears. During his concert which I attended a few weeks back, this same song struck a chord within me, on the words, “honey, I’m just trying to find my way to you.”

And those words have never been more true of anything in my life. Honey (meaning the mountains, the sea, God, my grand love, goats, a farm, babies, a writing career, and maybe gaining back one or two of my vintage trunks) I am just trying to find my way to you. Always. I am always trying to find my way to you.