A trend has developed in recent years to oppose the onslaught of size zero supermodels, celebrity diets and tummy-tucked c-section patients: the trend of “She’s too thin.”
I understand it, I do. Most women – not all women, but most – are made to have extra padding. Hips, bums, breasts and stomachs are normal, and why shouldn’t we encourage women with womanly proportions to embrace their curves, to hold up two fingers to the unhealthy perceptions of the female physique and accept that they are the way they are meant to be? I support that. What I do not support is slamming “thin” women.
I’m a size 8 on bottom and a size 6 on top. When I was a teenager, when I had what I ironically refer to now as “puppy fat”, I had an exceptionally large bum which had to be squeezed into a size 10. And I know what you’re thinking: “Size 10 is small!” And yes, size 10 is small to someone who is supposed to be a size 14 or 16, but I am not built to be a 14 or 16. I am narrow-shouldered, with thin wrists and tiny hands – hence why I am often mistaken for being just out of school. I know what I am and I know how I am meant to be; I have lived in this body for 23 years, I have grown up with it and I know it far better than any random stranger who chooses to pass off their “concerns” to me as I peruse the shops for my lunch.
“Is that all you’re eating?”
“Why don’t you eat?”
“Eat!”
I wonder if it would be so appropriate to ask a curvy woman why she eats so much, or to order her to stop eating. I wonder if it would be so appropriate to part some comment like, “You’re too fat. There must be something wrong with you”, as apparently it is appropriate for people who barely – if at all – know me to tell me, “You’re too thin. You must have an eating disorder.”
Ironically, being on the receiving end of comments such as these does eventually begin to instil in people like me an unhealthy perception of our bodies. I often pass by the mirror and glare at the way my top falls off my shoulders, too loose around the bust, or look at my legs poking out from under my skirt and wish they didn’t look so frail. I am aware of people watching me as I eat, and it makes me feel awkward and uncomfortable, as if every bite, every chew and every crumb on my plate is being analysed. I remember being 18 and in college; I had a chest infection, and I was in a toilet cubicle coughing up my lungs, dribbling phlegm everywhere. (It was sexy, trust me.) As I emerged from the cubicle a couple of minutes later, two glassy female stares met mine – judging, critical, assuming. I washed my hands and left.
I find myself facing increasing interrogation the older I get. I cannot have a bad day and be off my food without “concerned” individuals slamming my physical appearance. I understand that people’s intentions are good, but whatever the intention, it is demeaning to tell someone that the way they are supposed to be is “not right”. And if I wasn’t so used to it, it would probably be pretty hurtful, too...
Friday, 24 August 2012
Saturday, 18 August 2012
Breathing
Breathing
Living with an incurable illness is like breathing with a wire in your throat.
What should come easily must instead be pushed,
But push too hard and risk hearing that tearing of flesh,
The warm metallic blood rising to your mouth,
Sticky on your tongue, dribbling venom down your chin
Like the vampire that sucked away your life and left you with this
Nonentity.
There is no coffin that seals this illness shut,
Or shovel that pats it on the top of its head
And renders it tragic.
They don’t talk about how young you were or
The life stolen by waste.
You persist in the world, wasting away an existence you feel you stole,
Constantly waiting for the heavy hand on your shoulder
To come and take you away,
To make you stand trial for your sufferance.
Explain why.
Why?
Stand before judgement in the box they have classed as ‘wrong’
And tell them you don’t know why,
Or how,
Or how to stop.
You are a menace to yourself and to those who have no say in whether to love you,
Who somehow hear a heart beating in that hollow chest,
Who look into your eyes each day and see the child who promised
They would grow up to be happy.
I have stared through the cracked skin and weary eyes
And found a spirit buried so deep in sadness that it no longer knows
It is there.
I have touched it, felt the shock of it at my fingertips and
Snatched my hand away fiercely,
Shamefully offended by its presence.
I have known him,
Comforted her,
Clamped my arms around them and
Hoped to suffocate their suffering.
I have loosened my hold on their pain
(as they do from time-to-time)
But forever remain hanging by a thread of barbed wire
Tearing at our throats,
Blood bubbling to the surface,
Making it harder to breathe.
Living with an incurable illness is like breathing with a wire in your throat.
What should come easily must instead be pushed,
But push too hard and risk hearing that tearing of flesh,
The warm metallic blood rising to your mouth,
Sticky on your tongue, dribbling venom down your chin
Like the vampire that sucked away your life and left you with this
Nonentity.
There is no coffin that seals this illness shut,
Or shovel that pats it on the top of its head
And renders it tragic.
They don’t talk about how young you were or
The life stolen by waste.
You persist in the world, wasting away an existence you feel you stole,
Constantly waiting for the heavy hand on your shoulder
To come and take you away,
To make you stand trial for your sufferance.
Explain why.
Why?
Stand before judgement in the box they have classed as ‘wrong’
And tell them you don’t know why,
Or how,
Or how to stop.
You are a menace to yourself and to those who have no say in whether to love you,
Who somehow hear a heart beating in that hollow chest,
Who look into your eyes each day and see the child who promised
They would grow up to be happy.
I have stared through the cracked skin and weary eyes
And found a spirit buried so deep in sadness that it no longer knows
It is there.
I have touched it, felt the shock of it at my fingertips and
Snatched my hand away fiercely,
Shamefully offended by its presence.
I have known him,
Comforted her,
Clamped my arms around them and
Hoped to suffocate their suffering.
I have loosened my hold on their pain
(as they do from time-to-time)
But forever remain hanging by a thread of barbed wire
Tearing at our throats,
Blood bubbling to the surface,
Making it harder to breathe.
Thursday, 16 August 2012
Just... write.
Write a line.
Stare at it,
At the blinking, expectant cursor.
Backspace.
Keep going,
Keep typing.
You’re Blake,
Folded beneath a tree in Peckham Rye,
And the bark is imprinting its age into your skin.
You see angels – real angels,
Like the one you felt resting its chin on your left shoulder
The same week Nan died,
Or the one who slapped its tiny hand across your forehead when you were sleeping, and not living.
No one else sees them, but no one else needs to as much as you do.
You dream of Fear.
He’s always hiding at the top of a tower block.
You drag your feet toward him,
A slow slog, shoulders always slumped because the lift never works,
And what good is going anywhere if you’re not moving?
He waits for you: the storm that tears the sky in two and ripples through your bones,
The rain that bursts through the opening and drenches your consciousness –
Soaked, cold and panting,
Gasping for air like the Piscean whose fins were clipped at birth.
The angel must have woken you when she saw the tears on your face and
Inhaled the perspiration on your perpetually frozen palms
As you inhaled the hail.
Breathe,
She wants you to breathe,
To loosen your grip on Fear and climb higher,
Beyond him,
Toward the gaping hole in the sky.
Stare at it,
At the blinking, expectant cursor.
Backspace.
Keep going,
Keep typing.
You’re Blake,
Folded beneath a tree in Peckham Rye,
And the bark is imprinting its age into your skin.
You see angels – real angels,
Like the one you felt resting its chin on your left shoulder
The same week Nan died,
Or the one who slapped its tiny hand across your forehead when you were sleeping, and not living.
No one else sees them, but no one else needs to as much as you do.
You dream of Fear.
He’s always hiding at the top of a tower block.
You drag your feet toward him,
A slow slog, shoulders always slumped because the lift never works,
And what good is going anywhere if you’re not moving?
He waits for you: the storm that tears the sky in two and ripples through your bones,
The rain that bursts through the opening and drenches your consciousness –
Soaked, cold and panting,
Gasping for air like the Piscean whose fins were clipped at birth.
The angel must have woken you when she saw the tears on your face and
Inhaled the perspiration on your perpetually frozen palms
As you inhaled the hail.
Breathe,
She wants you to breathe,
To loosen your grip on Fear and climb higher,
Beyond him,
Toward the gaping hole in the sky.
Sunday, 8 July 2012
The Power of Lies
The Power of Lies
I hear you got a promotion:
Crack open the champagne.
And yes, you worked so very hard –
That nine-to-five’s a pain.
You’ll send your kids to private school;
They’ll get the very best.
You’ll have to pay high taxes – though
Who cares about the rest?
Just ignore those small boys and girls;
Failure is in their genes.
At twenty he’ll be inside; she’ll
Be pregnant by fourteen.
You must blame their low-life parents,
Who can’t be arsed to work.
But you do nothing but: always
With your hands in the dirt.
Those immigrants are coming in,
Trying to steal your job.
But if they can’t, they’ll make do in
The luxe life of a slob.
Of course, they’re a threat to your world;
Let’s send out our forces.
They just want to blow us all up;
You want their resources.
Your profit’s smashing through the roof;
Your kids are going blind.
Your life is so very perfect,
And should I tell you why?
Debbie works at the factory, and
Night shifts at a café:
Working hard to feed her kids; you
Pay her minimum wage.
Her kids are at the local comp,
Classes of thirty-five.
Another teacher has walked out;
There are no more supplies.
They come home and their mum’s not there;
Dad’s nowhere to be seen.
They don’t understand their homework,
So they just watch TV.
And what about that man Nasir,
Who’s living on the streets?
Trying to sell the Big Issue,
But whose glance you can’t meet.
After work in some seedy bar
Your drink’s spiked with your shame.
Is table-dancing really the
Liberty you proclaimed?
It’s not as bad as where they’re from:
A land not scarce of debt.
Your ancestors screwed over theirs;
You continue the quest.
While you stand on their shoulders, they
Line your pockets with gold.
And as long as you’ve power, we’ll
Believe the lies we’re told.
By Martha Everitt
April 2009
I hear you got a promotion:
Crack open the champagne.
And yes, you worked so very hard –
That nine-to-five’s a pain.
You’ll send your kids to private school;
They’ll get the very best.
You’ll have to pay high taxes – though
Who cares about the rest?
Just ignore those small boys and girls;
Failure is in their genes.
At twenty he’ll be inside; she’ll
Be pregnant by fourteen.
You must blame their low-life parents,
Who can’t be arsed to work.
But you do nothing but: always
With your hands in the dirt.
Those immigrants are coming in,
Trying to steal your job.
But if they can’t, they’ll make do in
The luxe life of a slob.
Of course, they’re a threat to your world;
Let’s send out our forces.
They just want to blow us all up;
You want their resources.
Your profit’s smashing through the roof;
Your kids are going blind.
Your life is so very perfect,
And should I tell you why?
Debbie works at the factory, and
Night shifts at a café:
Working hard to feed her kids; you
Pay her minimum wage.
Her kids are at the local comp,
Classes of thirty-five.
Another teacher has walked out;
There are no more supplies.
They come home and their mum’s not there;
Dad’s nowhere to be seen.
They don’t understand their homework,
So they just watch TV.
And what about that man Nasir,
Who’s living on the streets?
Trying to sell the Big Issue,
But whose glance you can’t meet.
After work in some seedy bar
Your drink’s spiked with your shame.
Is table-dancing really the
Liberty you proclaimed?
It’s not as bad as where they’re from:
A land not scarce of debt.
Your ancestors screwed over theirs;
You continue the quest.
While you stand on their shoulders, they
Line your pockets with gold.
And as long as you’ve power, we’ll
Believe the lies we’re told.
By Martha Everitt
April 2009
Saturday, 30 June 2012
Series: Pet Peeves #6
Pet Peeve #6: Rekindling Kindle Hate
Kindles. I fucking hate 'em.
I know I shouldn't, but every time I see someone on the bus, train or tube with a Kindle, or with one peeking deliberately from their bag, I judge them. (Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned...) I know I shouldn't; I know there are perfectly valid reasons to own a Kindle, for example: you want to read an epic novel like War and Peace, but have arthritis in your hands, or you stole a Kindle last year while you were out looting, and it would be a shame to let it go to waste - but everyone else? Be ashamed of yourselves. Would it hurt you to buy a bloody book?
If the answer to that question is "Yes, yes it would. I hate books", then you, sir/madam, are everything wrong with this world. You don't feel about books the same way I do. You don't sit in a candle-lit room and gently caress the cover with your gaze; you don't fondle the spine lightly with your fingertips; you don't lean in and smell those oh-so-sweet pages the first time you get close enough to. You can't treat a book the way I treat it, and you will never love it as much as I do. All you do is simply carry your 'precious' Kindle around with you like some kind of trophy, to show off at your pretentious little Christmas office parties. "Look how smooth it is," you tell your colleagues. "I turn it on every night. Ooh yeah." They don't know what you really do. They don't know that you leave it all alone in the kitchen all night, like the chauvinist bastard you really are.
My main gripe with Kindles lies in the people they are marketed at. See for yourself:
In this advert, we are shown 17 instances of people using a Kindle (if you include the shot of someone throwing a Kindle across a table - cos throwing a book is the first thing I think to do as I come out of Waterstones with my newest purchase); in only 6 of these are the people with the Kindle actually bothering to read from it (I don't include the kid cos, let's face it, at his age he's not gonna read anything unless it's got pictures in). The other 11 instances are as followed:
1. Person picks Kindle up. Well, alright. I suppose the first step in learning to read is in picking a book up. Well done.
2. Person takes Kindle out of a drawer full of jewellery. This is just a fancy variation of the previous shot. Not impressed.
3. Person puts Kindle on passenger seat in car. Yes, because that is what we do with books. We put them on car seats. We read two sentences at a time at the traffic lights, and hope that by the end of our life we have managed to finish chapter one.
4. Person lets dog lick Kindle. Like a book, only tastes better. I see where the marketing team were going here.
5. Man gives Kindle to woman. "I don't want it anymore! You have it!" Alternatively: "What does this say? C-H-A-P-T-E-R-O-N-E. Hmmm."
6. Child randomly presses buttons on Kindle. Probably deliberately breaking it because his parents aren't paying him any attention anymore - not since they started taking their Kindle on long, romantic car rides through the countryside.
7. Person throws Kindle across table. As you do.
8. Man gives Kindle to woman as a Christmas present. She looks happy and hugs him. "Oh darling, just what I never knew I always wanted until I saw everyone else with one!"
9. Person puts Kindle in back pocket. Right. Well.
10. Person throws their breakfast over Kindle. We must feed our Kindles, make sure they never go hungry. Y'see, Kindles aren't just for Christmas - they're for life.
11. Woman takes Kindle on quiet bike ride on a hot summer's day. I only hope she remembered to put some sunblock on the Kindle!
All this is played along to a chirpy little happy tune, and everyone looks like they're having a really good time. But the thing is, folks, we're not being sold a product here, we're being sold a lifestyle. That's why it annoys the crap out of me when I see people brandishing their Kindles all over public transport. I see them as someone who was never that keen on reading, who was taken in by a simple capitalist marketing scam; they were told that if they bought a Kindle, they would enjoy a chirpy little happy life, with sunshine and flowers and smiles all round. The reality for most of them (note, I said most), as they sit there on the train reading some generic novel about some war veteran having an affair with the general's wife (don't they all seem to do that?), is they're bored out of their fucking skulls.
You know I'm right.
Kindles. I fucking hate 'em.
I know I shouldn't, but every time I see someone on the bus, train or tube with a Kindle, or with one peeking deliberately from their bag, I judge them. (Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned...) I know I shouldn't; I know there are perfectly valid reasons to own a Kindle, for example: you want to read an epic novel like War and Peace, but have arthritis in your hands, or you stole a Kindle last year while you were out looting, and it would be a shame to let it go to waste - but everyone else? Be ashamed of yourselves. Would it hurt you to buy a bloody book?
If the answer to that question is "Yes, yes it would. I hate books", then you, sir/madam, are everything wrong with this world. You don't feel about books the same way I do. You don't sit in a candle-lit room and gently caress the cover with your gaze; you don't fondle the spine lightly with your fingertips; you don't lean in and smell those oh-so-sweet pages the first time you get close enough to. You can't treat a book the way I treat it, and you will never love it as much as I do. All you do is simply carry your 'precious' Kindle around with you like some kind of trophy, to show off at your pretentious little Christmas office parties. "Look how smooth it is," you tell your colleagues. "I turn it on every night. Ooh yeah." They don't know what you really do. They don't know that you leave it all alone in the kitchen all night, like the chauvinist bastard you really are.
My main gripe with Kindles lies in the people they are marketed at. See for yourself:
In this advert, we are shown 17 instances of people using a Kindle (if you include the shot of someone throwing a Kindle across a table - cos throwing a book is the first thing I think to do as I come out of Waterstones with my newest purchase); in only 6 of these are the people with the Kindle actually bothering to read from it (I don't include the kid cos, let's face it, at his age he's not gonna read anything unless it's got pictures in). The other 11 instances are as followed:
1. Person picks Kindle up. Well, alright. I suppose the first step in learning to read is in picking a book up. Well done.
2. Person takes Kindle out of a drawer full of jewellery. This is just a fancy variation of the previous shot. Not impressed.
3. Person puts Kindle on passenger seat in car. Yes, because that is what we do with books. We put them on car seats. We read two sentences at a time at the traffic lights, and hope that by the end of our life we have managed to finish chapter one.
4. Person lets dog lick Kindle. Like a book, only tastes better. I see where the marketing team were going here.
5. Man gives Kindle to woman. "I don't want it anymore! You have it!" Alternatively: "What does this say? C-H-A-P-T-E-R-O-N-E. Hmmm."
6. Child randomly presses buttons on Kindle. Probably deliberately breaking it because his parents aren't paying him any attention anymore - not since they started taking their Kindle on long, romantic car rides through the countryside.
7. Person throws Kindle across table. As you do.
8. Man gives Kindle to woman as a Christmas present. She looks happy and hugs him. "Oh darling, just what I never knew I always wanted until I saw everyone else with one!"
9. Person puts Kindle in back pocket. Right. Well.
10. Person throws their breakfast over Kindle. We must feed our Kindles, make sure they never go hungry. Y'see, Kindles aren't just for Christmas - they're for life.
11. Woman takes Kindle on quiet bike ride on a hot summer's day. I only hope she remembered to put some sunblock on the Kindle!
All this is played along to a chirpy little happy tune, and everyone looks like they're having a really good time. But the thing is, folks, we're not being sold a product here, we're being sold a lifestyle. That's why it annoys the crap out of me when I see people brandishing their Kindles all over public transport. I see them as someone who was never that keen on reading, who was taken in by a simple capitalist marketing scam; they were told that if they bought a Kindle, they would enjoy a chirpy little happy life, with sunshine and flowers and smiles all round. The reality for most of them (note, I said most), as they sit there on the train reading some generic novel about some war veteran having an affair with the general's wife (don't they all seem to do that?), is they're bored out of their fucking skulls.
You know I'm right.
Sunday, 24 June 2012
A Case For "Ms"
I am going to give the world the benefit of the doubt, and go on the assumption that, like the woman I was speaking to a few days ago, the majority of people don't really know what Ms means. The alternative is to put everyone down as misogynistic bastards with values in line with that of a prehistoric dinosaur. No offence to dinosaurs.
The way I see it, Master and Miss are for boys and girls under the age of 18, respectively; Mr and Ms are for men and women over the age of 18, respectively. I don't see why we need to start defining women by their marital status, as if, somehow, being a Mrs makes you more or less important. I imagine that back in the day it was a way of branding women, of saying to other men, "She's mine, assholes. Back off." Much like the engagement ring, it's like whipping out your piece and taking a piss on someone, just so everyone knows "Bob woz ere" - and if a dude is gonna piss on you ladies, then you need to piss back. When he gives you an engagement ring, give him one back. When you change your title to Mrs, he should be changing his to Msr (or something more phonetically feasible; I dunno, I haven't really given the technicalities a huge amount of thought yet).
A few weeks ago, I was filling in a CRB application and, as I always do, I checked the box Ms. When I got to the end of the application and tried submitting it, it wouldn't let me - not until I had filled in the box Previous surname. Of course, I couldn't do this, because I have only ever had the one surname. Reluctantly, I had to check the box Miss instead.
Even when, bureaucratically, a system allows you to choose between Miss and Ms or Mrs and Ms, very often the reality is that you can only be a Ms if you are married, divorced or widowed - in which case, we are still defining women by their marital status. In what world is that OK? In what world are men men, and women simply accessories to men?
In this world, apparently.
The way I see it, Master and Miss are for boys and girls under the age of 18, respectively; Mr and Ms are for men and women over the age of 18, respectively. I don't see why we need to start defining women by their marital status, as if, somehow, being a Mrs makes you more or less important. I imagine that back in the day it was a way of branding women, of saying to other men, "She's mine, assholes. Back off." Much like the engagement ring, it's like whipping out your piece and taking a piss on someone, just so everyone knows "Bob woz ere" - and if a dude is gonna piss on you ladies, then you need to piss back. When he gives you an engagement ring, give him one back. When you change your title to Mrs, he should be changing his to Msr (or something more phonetically feasible; I dunno, I haven't really given the technicalities a huge amount of thought yet).
A few weeks ago, I was filling in a CRB application and, as I always do, I checked the box Ms. When I got to the end of the application and tried submitting it, it wouldn't let me - not until I had filled in the box Previous surname. Of course, I couldn't do this, because I have only ever had the one surname. Reluctantly, I had to check the box Miss instead.
Even when, bureaucratically, a system allows you to choose between Miss and Ms or Mrs and Ms, very often the reality is that you can only be a Ms if you are married, divorced or widowed - in which case, we are still defining women by their marital status. In what world is that OK? In what world are men men, and women simply accessories to men?
In this world, apparently.
Monday, 4 June 2012
LOL
Politicians are out of touch with the youth of today. They've tried to bridge the gap with their Hug A Hoodie campaign, but if they knew anything at all about hoodies, they would know that hoodies don't like to be hugged, and especially not by David Cameron. I suspect David Cameron has absolutely no intention of trying to get intimate with a hoodie, and until he appears on Prime Minister's Questions with a black eye and a bunch of missing teeth, I will continue to presume this to be the case... and actually, even if he does turn up with a black eye and a bunch of missing teeth, there's every possibility Rebekah Brooks just got a little slap-happy again.
David Cameron's sordid (yes, it is sordid; two Tories talking to one another is always sordid) little text messages to Rebekah Brooks are only further evidence that he doesn't have a clue. LOL? No, David. Just no. And Rebekah Brooks doesn't know much better, either. LOL does not mean "laugh out loud". Perhaps it did, once upon a time, in a faraway land full of leprechauns and skipping bunnies, where everyone was happy all the time and laughed just because the sun shone and the rainbows emitted Skittles, but no longer is this the case in the real world. Now, LOL serves five primary functions:
1. To communicate that you are joking, even if what you happen to be saying isn't very funny. E.g. Yes, I did my homework as soon as I got home on Friday lol.
2. To soften the blow when you insult someone, because actually you're a little wuss who can dish it out but can't take it back. E.g. You're fat and ugly lol.
3. To indicate that you have a low IQ. E.g. Hi bb lol.
4. To communicate that what you just read was mildly amusing. This is the nearest variant of 'lol' to the original 'lol'. E.g. Wow, what you just said almost made the corners of my mouth turn up lol.
5. To indicate that the conversation is over, go away and leave me alone now. E.g. Person 1: Yeah. Person 2: Lol.
David Cameron, if you are reading this now, I suggest you think very long and hard before using LOL again. And if you do choose to use it again, I suspect it will be for the second function, when you are making your next speech on all these 'necessary' cuts: "We're all in this together. That's why I'm using taxpayer money to pay for my second home while you rot away in your crummy little council estates, you useless working-class bastards lol." Come to think of it, "Mwahaha" works just as well.
David Cameron's sordid (yes, it is sordid; two Tories talking to one another is always sordid) little text messages to Rebekah Brooks are only further evidence that he doesn't have a clue. LOL? No, David. Just no. And Rebekah Brooks doesn't know much better, either. LOL does not mean "laugh out loud". Perhaps it did, once upon a time, in a faraway land full of leprechauns and skipping bunnies, where everyone was happy all the time and laughed just because the sun shone and the rainbows emitted Skittles, but no longer is this the case in the real world. Now, LOL serves five primary functions:
1. To communicate that you are joking, even if what you happen to be saying isn't very funny. E.g. Yes, I did my homework as soon as I got home on Friday lol.
2. To soften the blow when you insult someone, because actually you're a little wuss who can dish it out but can't take it back. E.g. You're fat and ugly lol.
3. To indicate that you have a low IQ. E.g. Hi bb lol.
4. To communicate that what you just read was mildly amusing. This is the nearest variant of 'lol' to the original 'lol'. E.g. Wow, what you just said almost made the corners of my mouth turn up lol.
5. To indicate that the conversation is over, go away and leave me alone now. E.g. Person 1: Yeah. Person 2: Lol.
David Cameron, if you are reading this now, I suggest you think very long and hard before using LOL again. And if you do choose to use it again, I suspect it will be for the second function, when you are making your next speech on all these 'necessary' cuts: "We're all in this together. That's why I'm using taxpayer money to pay for my second home while you rot away in your crummy little council estates, you useless working-class bastards lol." Come to think of it, "Mwahaha" works just as well.
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