relativity (tw: self-victim-blaming. lots of it. and other things)

Great, big trigger warning.

“crying rape” part 2, or, a distinction people think we can’t make

Okay, okay, so before I launch into the next part of this series, I should clarify that I understand that the internet (particularly Reddit and 4chan, both of which I frequent) is a haven of anonymity that can bring out the worst in people. I understand that it’s biased, that assholes will run their mouth there in a way that they probably wouldn’t. I get it. But I also have had my online experiences echo my real-life experiences enough times, in enough ways, on enough important subjects, that I’m not going to distinguish between a Redditor bawwing about how women cry rape if they regret sex, and a sorority girl saying, “Well, sometimes girls get drunk and just want attention”.

 

Side note: I almost wrote “girls gets drunk” about ten times before I finally corrected it. I got my wisdom teeth out yesterday, so this will be an interesting experiment in how well I can argue against rape culture while on vicodin.

 

Anyway, moving on.

 

In real life and online, I’ve seen the question asked countless time – sometimes it seems as though the person is actually asking, and sometimes it’s obviously rhetorical and meant as an assertion. Yeah, but was this actual rape, or sex you regretted later?

Despite the fact that I have my head buried in the Wonderful World of Rape Culture on pretty much a daily basis, this is an issue I’ve put off addressing simply because it makes me angry to the point where words just don’t even happen correctly. False rape accusations happen. False accusations of anything happen. But this absurd idea that 1) being accused of rape immediately ruins a man’s* life forever (as I addressed in a previous post), and 2) rape has to be treated first as an excuse and secondly as a real accusation of a real crime with real, terrible consequences makes me tear my hair out.

 

Unless a woman has very deep-seated issues (to the point, I would argue, that she would not be mentally or emotionally competent enough to consent to sexual activity anyway) or has never been taught a thing about how consent is supposed to work, I wager that she knows the difference between sex and rape. Enough, at least, to not assert** that something was rape when it was not. To automatically assume that every rape accusation is just a secret struggle for revenge or attention, or to avoid embarrassment, is a very dangerous assumption to make.

There is a lot of difference between bad sex and rape. There is a lot of difference between sex you didn’t want to have, and sex that you feel dumb for having had.

How can I be so sure about this?

 

Well, how about this. I’ve had sex that I wish I didn’t have before, and it was not rape. See, in high school, I at one point hooked up with this guy named Chris. He was a friend of mine, but I didn’t particularly like anything about him. He was not my type physically, he had a pretty abrasive personality, he wasn’t all that smart, and he and I shared no interests whatsoever. But, we were stupid and hormonal and bored, and we did what we did. It wasn’t particularly good, but it was consensual, albeit embarrassing and something I regret.

It was also nothing like rape.

I do not still lie awake at night thinking about what happened with Chris. After what happened with Chris, I did not start to see my body as a foreign and frightening entity. I did not lose the ability to handle interpersonal reaction. I did not feel violated, hollowed out, empty, or like life was not worth living.

Did I feel stupid? Sure, I felt stupid, especially after some people found out. I cringed and blushed when friends brought it up, and I still don’t talk about it much. It was not my proudest moment.

 

But it also did not destroy me on a fundamental level. Not like rape does. Not like the time when I was thirteen or fourteen did, not like the time when I was seventeen did. I knew the difference way back then, with Chris, before I’d even realized or come to terms with the fact that I’d lost my virginity to rape. Before realizing that I’d been raped before, I knew Chris had not raped me. I never said otherwise.

No one in their right mind would.

 

 

 

 

 

*Rather than my usual gender-neutral language, I’m going to be echoing the genders society assigns this particular argument. I have literally never heard anyone try to claim that this happens the other way around, so I’m not going to address it here.

**Non-jokingly, that is. I’ve heard women pull the stupid, “The sex was so bad, it was practically rape! LOL!” line as just another form of a rape joke, but that’s not what I’m talking about here.

 

I’m back.

The last few weeks have kicked me in the goddamn face a few times.

 

I’d started having panic attacks on a massive scale as the year drew to a close. I’ve recently become embroiled in a lot of stuff with the administration at my school – as I believe I noted in my last post, a big part of the reason I have been posting less here is that I have been Doing Things in the real world as far as the sexual misconduct policy, school’s response, and training the RA’s and so on receive. The flip side of this is that now, on top of finals, I also had A Shit Ton Of Other Things To Do. Even a meeting with the provost, which I was really excited about, because she’s basically The Person Who Makes Things Happen on this campus. Even so, I was coming apart at the seams a little, between the rising anxiety that I’m almost considering looking into medication for, and the continued stress of a) not hearing back from the police, and b) My Rapist being back in town, and c) still not being Over It.

Then, my granddad died.

See, my maternal grandparents did about half the work of raising me. Up until I left for college, I’d never lived more than ten minutes away from them. I knew my granddad had been having heart trouble recently; but, unfortunately, that was nothing new. The man seemed pretty much indestructible – he’d been in and out of hospitals for about two decades, but always bounced back just fine.

In hindsight, though, I think he knew he was dying. The last time I talked to him, he stayed on the phone longer than usual and was more serious than I’d usually heard him (I attributed this to the meds he was on; usually, I can’t get the man to stop joking around with me long enough to get a serious word in edgewise). He told me he loved me, that he was proud of me. He told me to be a good girl.

He went back to the hospital for a few days, and when he got back, I tried to call. They didn’t answer, so I left a voicemail and told myself I’d call back the next day. I got busy, I forgot. And then the day after that, my mom called me early in the morning and said that Grandpa had died that night. I missed the meeting with the provost, and I got on a plane.

 

Finals start tomorrow, but I was at home this weekend for the service anyway. Quick flights, no sleep, trying to get my grandma’s stuff moved into a new apartment while keeping my meth-addled cousin (there’s one in every family) from being able to steal anything valuable. I got back less than 12 hours ago, and have come down with some sort of foodborne thing that has me intermittently attempting to vomit quietly in a public bathroom (ah, dorm life). There were so many relatives there this weekend, I didn’t even get a chance to try to get one of my granddad’s old sweatshirts. I know exactly the one I wanted, too. But he loved me, and he gave me the old key to the bakery he used to run because he knew I’d like it, so I have something to remember him by.

I miss my grandpa.

I only really cried once so far, except at the service. Alone in my room – the kind of crying where you just stare into space and make little squeaking noises and don’t really blink. Everyone else cried all the time this weekend, but I can’t cry around other people. I have to take care of them. I don’t know why.

 

I have posts I want to write. Most notably, a continuation of the last real post I made, about Problems With The Assertion That Women Cry Rape. I want to write it. But I have finals, and I have to throw up, and I just want to hide somewhere.

We’ll see what happens.

another problem with the “women cry rape” argument

I put the “another” in there, even though I’ve not yet addressed this issue explicitly, because I feel like obviously this is only one of several really fucking big holes in the prevailing-wisdom “OMGWOMENCRYRAPEALLTHETIME, we should never take a rape allegation seriously” bullshit.

 

But, here’s a problem with that, and also an update, all rolled into one happy little package.

 

Especially on Reddit, where I spend a decent amount of time, there seems to be this fucking weird notion that the second the words “he raped me” leave a woman’s mouth, the entire county’s fleet of cops descends on the alleged perpetrator like a pack of hounds set loose on a fox. The man is dragged away in handcuffs, thrown into jail, reputation tarnished, life ruined FOREVARRRRR.

This is pretty much exactly what does not happen.

 

The statistics are out there: of reported rapes, a pathetically small fraction of perpetrators ever see the inside of a jail cell, or anything more than a slap on the wrist.

Thing is, that’s of the reported rapes that even get followed up on.

 

How about my case? Looking back on my archives, we can see that I went to the police oh, say, about two months ago. The officer who took my initial report was polite and professional, which I appreciated, and assured me that a detective would be getting in contact with me Within The Next Few Days to take a full report.

I heard nothing from anyone until about two weeks ago, when a woman with a very heavy accent called from the police department (I didn’t hear the specifics because I could barely understand her, and it seemed as though that was mutual…curse my habit of mumbling) and asked if I needed to be Connected With Resources In The Community. I said no, and I hung up, and I sat there angry and confused.

See, apparently, despite the fact that my rapist is currently out on $10,000 bail for a non-sexual violent crime and Use Of Controlled Substances, despite the fact that he has assaulted other women, despite the fact that there was enough evidence to get him expelled from his college, despite the fact that he was still at large, and despite the fact that he is clearly extremely mentally unstable and a danger to the community, law enforcement still did not see fit to follow up in any way on my report, or even make it official.

 

I wish I could somehow convey through here, without the excessive use of bold and caps lock, how incredibly, inconsolably angry I am over all this.

 

I am angry that my college is allowing my friend’s rapist to come back next year, and requiring that he only Write A Paper About Why Rape Is Bad in order to do so.

I am angry that Dean J tried to pull some fucking gaslighting on me by saying that the way he acted toward me – which I confirmed, before confronting him, with other members of camping living who were present at the time – was Not The Way He Remembered It Happening and Not True.

I am angry that, somewhere along the line of the interviews and preparation for an article that never appeared in the paper, I and other victims were lied to.

I am angry that there is not information about my school’s sexual misconduct policy easily available or accessible.

I

am

angry.

 

 

That is also why my posting has been so infrequent recently. Not only because it’s almost finals week, but because I have been going to endless meetings and interviews and trying, goddamnit, trying to get something changed around here for the sake of everyone who will be raped here in the future. Because it happens, because it will happen, because so few people seem to care about stopping it from happening.

a cool thing that just happened

Yesterday, as part of a Take Back The Night thing at my college, a pretty prominent member of our sexual assault advocacy network hosted a discussion on How Men Can Help Prevent Sexual Assault. Typical of my college, the talk started late and thus was cut short, which in a way sort of sucked, since I felt that there was a lot more to be said on the subject. That, in combination with the fact that more of the female attendees insisted on answering every question rather than prodding the male attendees to respond, meant that in some ways I don’t think the discussion quite achieved its purpose.

That all being said, it was still a pretty awesome thing. A few of the menfolk really did contribute, which was great to see, and it was better attended than I expected (which, granted, isn’t saying much). A drop in the bucket, but, still, a pretty rockin’ drop in the bucket if you ask me.

 

That’s not the really cool thing, though.

 

The really cool thing was that one of the guys who contributed the most happened to be the significant other of a friend/acquaintance. So, when I ran into him today in the cafeteria, I stopped to say “hey, thanks for being there last night”.

He looked at me, surprised and confused, and replied, “Why are you thanking me? You don’t need to do that. It was really interesting, and important. Seriously.” And he smiled and we said “see ya” and that was that.

 

Wow.

Seriously, wow.

 

I guess it’s a sad reflection on the times, that a) I did, on some level, feel the need to thank him, and b) that I was so absolutely floored by his response to it. But it made me incredibly happy to run across a guy who, sincerely, did not expect or want to have a party thrown in his honor just for taking the time to acknowledge that sexual violence is a problem.

Especially at a liberal arts college, you run into a lot of the “I’m going to throw the word ‘patriarchy’ around, and that absolves me of anything sexist or misogynistic I may ever do” guys, and a lot of the “I’m going to not rape this drunk girl and expect a fucking medal for it (and be angry when I don’t get one)” guys.

So it’s super refreshing that this kid – athletic, outgoing, with a heavy Eastern European accent – was genuinely perplexed and uncomfortable with the idea of being thanked for taking an interest in very real, very serious problems on campus.

 

: )

I hate guessing games

What has two thumbs and finally had enough free time that she could have written a new post today?

This girl.

 

What still has two thumbs and, instead, got into a flurry of getting homework done ahead of time fueled by an intense, inexpressible, and surprising flurry of Being Angry That’s Probably Related To Cutting Again For The First Time In Months, tried and failed to reach out to somebody, got some flashbacks that she considered blogging about, and then spent five minutes screaming into a pillow before resigning herself to doing laundry?

Also, this girl.

a brief note on partner rape, or “a chance to see avvie resort to metaphors”

It was requested of me, quite some time ago, that I write a post on partner rape. It’s taken me far too long to do so, and the reason why is actually fairly telling: because partner rape is still rape. I don’t classify it differently, in a way. Because while our lovely society try to call that “gray rape” or “almost rape” or “taking advantage” or whatever, I call it rape. It was hard for me to think of a distinct and self-contained post on the subject for exactly this reason: it’s rape, and it’s rape like a lot of the other rape situations I talk about.

What’s different, however, is how the rest of the world might tell you to feel about it.

Because apparently, once you’ve started dating somebody, they suddenly have the unequivocal right to have sex with you wherever, whenever, and in whatever way they so choose. Because, apparently, agreeing to a relationship is equivalent to giving blanket consent for everything. Ever.

 

Okay, so, it’s generally known (on this blog, at least) that I do not like using metaphors in talking about rape. I think that just about any comparison that could be used is just so unbelievably different from a sexual assault experience, it negates any light the simile could shed.

 

But, hey, first time for everything.

Imagine that a person A and hir friend person B have decided to buddy up and take martial arts classes together. They have mutually agreed to do a certain thing, in a certain way, at a certain time. I know that’s not exactly like a romantic relationship, but you see my point. It’s an agreement that covers a certain set of reasonable behaviors in reasonable ways, and generally both involved parties enjoy and benefit from it.

Now imagine that, one day, person A and person B are sitting around when person B says ze wants to practice some martial arts. Person A declines, for any conceivable reason – maybe ze is sick, maybe ze has a lot on her mind, maybe ze just doesn’t feel like it. Any of these is a valid and acceptable reason. But person B decides that they are going to practice anyway, and attacks and injures person A.

If it goes to court as a battery case, was “but we agreed to take a martial arts class together!” going to hold up as a legitimate defense?

No, I didn’t think so.

Because their agreement only covered a certain set of behaviors, and there was still a major, major role to play in terms of respect, continued communication and agreement, and consent. There is nothing wrong with doing martial arts. In fact, the exercise and stress relief is extremely healthy. It’s the sort of outlet people need. But, but, but, there is something Very Very Wrong with doing martial arts if one person is doing the martial arts while the other person is having the martial arts done to them. If both partners have not agreed to practice – or if they did initially agree to it, but either participant became uncomfortable with what followed and withdrew agreement, only to have the other continue – then it is no longer practicing martial arts, it is assault/battery.

 

Just like how, if both/all involved partners have not actively consented to sexual activity, or consent has been withdrawn, it is no longer sex. It is rape.

 

Rape is rape if someone you don’t know breaks into your home and has sexual contact with you without your consent.

Rape is rape if you are drunk at a party and an acquaintance has sexual contact with you without your consent.

Rape is rape if your best friend gets you alone in your room has sexual contact with you without your consent.

Rape is rape if your girlfriend rolls over in the middle of the night and has sexual contact with you without your consent.

Rape is rape if your husband of twenty-five years decides he wants to try anal and has sexual contact with you without your consent.

 

It’s all rape. It’s not “sort of rape” or “almost rape” or “gray rape” or “like rape” or any other cushy euphemism the world can come up with. Just because you are with someone, that does not excuse sexual misconduct in any way. Ever.

 

And it’s heartbreaking how few people realize that. How many people I know who have felt forced into sexual contact by their significant other at one point or another, and still blame themselves, or believe that it’s Not Really Rape because of the preexisting relationship.

And, more than that, it makes me sick that society insists on affirming that notion every. Damn. Time.

a silly little ramble about silly little things

I have feelings sometimes in some capacity.

Sometimes I have feelings toward a person.

Sometimes they are not necessarily platonic feelings (though I would not go to far as to say “sexual”. “Romantic” sounds fucking goofy, but it’s the closest thing I can come up with. It’s been a long time since I’ve been able to look at someone and think hot damn I would like to do non-PG-rated things with that person over there if they were into it too).

Sometimes they are not reciprocated (they aren’t in this case; I’d put a lot of money on that).

And this is okay.

 

It gets less okay when, like a lot (no, seriously, a lot) of your other friends, said person is going to be a part of your college’s Campus Living staff next year.

 

I gots me some issues with the idea that, next year – or probably before, actually, I’m not sure what the training schedule on these things is – this person will probably have a lot of access to information about me and the sexual assault case and all sorts of other things that I don’t even know is documented out there.

It’s not that I don’t trust hir or anything. Ze’s a good person as far as I’m concerned, and a lot of other people feel the same way. Realistically, I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone who has a bad thing to say about hir. This is one out of many reasons that I will never actually pursue anything to do with the feelings I may have for hir. I don’t think I could handle the idea of being involved with someone who is generally accepted as Grade-A Awesome, because I’d feel like I was somehow Bringing Them Down To My Level, and My Level is not a place where Grade-A Awesome belongs.

Back to my point. It’s not that I don’t think ze would be responsible with this information. It’s not even that I’m egocentric enough to think that this information would be particularly earth-shattering for anyone in particular. I am not an especially special little snowflake. But it’s embarrassing and nerve-wracking to me on a pretty basic and dumb level, because what if there are things out there that basically say Oh Hey This Girl Is Making A Big Deal Out Of Nothing? What if there is documentation of someone in the administration thinking that I Was Making It All Up For Attention? What about the people who know that The Other Girl Had It Much Worse And This Avvie Chick Is Just The One Raising All The Fuss Over A Lesser Thing? What if the actual report makes its way across hir desk and ze reads it and thinks that was it, that was all? What if, god-I-don’t-believe-in forbid, Dean J made some sort of report or memo or whatever after our meeting last week? Fuck.

 

NOT THAT I OVERTHINK THINGS OR FREAK OUT OVER TOTALLY INSIGNIFICANT THINGS NOPE OF COURSE NOT.

 

In the end, it doesn’t matter, because I really don’t plan to make this a thing I pursue at all. First and foremost, because this person is a good friend and I don’t feel like making hir uncomfortable – or, just as bad, feel like ze has to give me a Let Avvie Down Gently talk, because that’s not necessary. And by that I mean that I already know that ze doesn’t have the same sort of feelings (shit, I don’t even know if I have them, because my own romantic/sexual feelings are just totally alien and nebulous to me at this point), and even if ze did I really wouldn’t know where to go from there. So that sort of talk would probably just be awkward for the both of us.

I also don’t want hir to change how ze acts around me in an effort to Not Lead Me On, because I don’t feel lead on at all. I feel like ze has been pretty clear, though not verbally, that they are not looking for Anything Like That. So it’s not like I go around looking for excuses to assume otherwise. I think I know where we stand right now.

Besides, I am very very good at making feelings like this just go away. Once I decide to do it, it’s pretty much done. Hard to reverse, unfortunately, though I guess in the end that might be a good thing. I can’t imagine under what circumstances engaging in a romantic relationship again would be a good decision for me. I am afraid of and disgusted by everyone who I consider On My Level, and I don’t know how to get past the guilt I would feel in dragging down someone Good And Awesome. I guess it sort of hearkens back to a Groucho Marx quip: I don’t want to join any club that would have me as a member. Which is not to say that I think anyone who would have feelings for me is automatically Yucky. Totally the opposite. Maybe someone Good and Awesome could have a thing for me, but only if they were missing or trying to ignore some vital piece of what the fuck I am.

Yes, I’m more than my experiences. Yes, yes, yes. But I am dumbfounded by the suggestion that someone could find me sexually desirable when I feel like a dirty towel that someone jizzed on and then crumpled in the bottom of the hamper. I am dumbfounded that someone could enjoy my company when I sometimes forget how to make words work at all, or get nervous and talk far too much and end up only really opening my mouth to switch feet, so to speak (this seems to happen increasingly around The Person I Think I Have Feelings For). I am dumbfounded that anyone could think I’m pretty when all I can see are the scars from picking at my skin too much and the baggy sweatshirts I’ve made my uniform because I’m so, so afraid of being labeled That Slut Who Was Just Asking For It Anyway.

 

Like I said, this is all silly. This is my brain puking out words of dubious worth in a desperate attempt to avoid thinking about the paper due thursday and my next Calc II exam and the SARA training I went to today and the bank statement I still need to read.

But if anyone managed to wade through that big puddle of silly, meaningless words and get something out of it, then, hey, thanks anyway. ^^;

 

what. I just…what.

Of all the responses I’ve received to admitting having been raped, I’d like to talk a minute to ramble about what I’d consider probably the strangest one.

Y’know, the one where I was told that I should see it as a compliment.

 

Basically, this is a pared-and-watered-down version of the blanket assumption that Rape Is Caused By Sexual Attraction. That’s the same fun little paradigm that tells women that they got raped because of what they wear/otherwise being Too Sexually Attractive, that considers it Not Rape if consent was initially given but then retracted because clearly A Man Can’t Help Himself Once He’s Aroused, and so on and so forth. The flip side of the coin is that you are expected to be somehow proud of being Rape-able; that you are attractive enough to cause someone to lose self-control to the point that they would rape you.

 

Okay, look. I’m not trying to say that rape has nothing to do with sex. I’m sure that plays a role in a reasonable number of cases. But you cannot, should not, and (in my presence) will not treat them as different levels of the same thing. Rape is not caused by sexual attraction, although distorted and fucked up kinds of sexual attraction can play into the rapist psyche. I’m no PH.D. psychiatrist or anything, but I consider myself to know more than a little about the mental processes of one rapist in particular – and I know that he freely admitted to me that he found women in desperate or helpless situations extremely arousing. He got off on the feeling of power, on a very basic and routinely disturbing level.

In case anyone needs it spelled it out for them, this is not the same thing as a victim being targeted by virtue of sexual attractiveness. A rapist getting off on the idea of, or aspects of, rape is not the same thing as a prior non-rapist suddenly being turned into a rapist by a particularly attractive woman walking by.

 

Despite all this, I recently heard this exact phrase:

That’s too bad, but you should be happy because at least someone wanted you.

 

Once I picked my jaw up off the floor, I tried to explain that, even if that were the general impetus for rape (which, as stated above, I don’t believe it is), that wouldn’t exactly follow from the situation.

Rape does not happen because you are sexy; and I can say this because I myself am both a rape victim and not sexy. It’s not that I’m ugly or anything – I am, however, baby-faced and oddly proportioned, like a more awkward cross between Betty Boop and Baby from Dirty Dancing. My nose is perpetually red, I rarely know what to do with my big hands and feet except hide them under long jeans and baggy hoodies, I have extremely small breasts and a disconcerting habit of picking at my fingers when I’m talking to people. And in fact, on the first day he raped me, I don’t believe I’d even showered yet; I had knotted bedhead and was wearing a sweatshirt that probably needed to be washed pretty badly. I had on old, faded pink underwear that I rarely put on except to go to the gym and no makeup. I was not stealing smoldering glances in his direction or speaking in a lusty, breathy Marilyn Monroe voice.*

If you glean one thing from all this, let it be that I sincerely doubt I was raped due to feminine wiles and sexual allure. When it comes to the vast majority of people in my age group, I remind them in looks much, much more of a younger sibling than a hookup prospect.

 

So, no, I was not raped because Someone Thought I Was Just So Irresistible. And I sure as hell do not need to take it as a compliment.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

*Of course, let it be known that none of these are an excuse for rape, anyway (I have previous posts on the subject). Just trying to show the contrast.

 

well, this has the potential to be a trainwreck

Fifty-eight minutes and counting until I go in to confront Dean J.

 

Confession: I have no fucking idea what I’m doing.

Actually, I don’t think that was quite emphatic enough to describe how I feel about this. Let’s try that again:

 

I HAVE NO FUCKING IDEA WHAT I’M DOING

There, that just about sums it up.

See, I’m not a person who is good with authority, or standing up for myself, or being angry at people. I guess, in the end, the way I feel about Dean J parallels how I feel about My Rapist in one important aspect: if I focus on my own end of it, I mostly just feel confused and frustrated. In order to stay indignant, angry, and/or confrontational, I have to think about the Other Girl’s side of the equation.

That is going to be problematic, because she is coming with me to talk with Dean J. At risk of feeling like I’m bulldozing/talking over her/putting words in her mouth, I’m going to have to let her handle her own side of things, and handle my own myself. I don’t know how well I am going to do with that, because I tend to be far, far too understanding.

I need to somehow keep myself from saying “oh, it’s okay, I understand” to any excuses he might make. I need to remember that the way he treated the case was in a lot of ways fucked up from an objective viewpoint, and that the administration’s actions in a way led to the rape – and I need to remind myself that somehow, somehow, somehow I didn’t Deserve The Rape. Because it’s damn hard to hold someone else accountable for something that happened to me when I still automatically withdraw into my little chrysalis of I Am The One To Blame I Taught Him To Rape By Not Stopping Him He Tried To Kill Himself Because Of Me I Must Have Been Asking For It Who Am I To Ruin His Life He Raped The Other Girl He Did Not Rape Me It Is Not My Place To Talk About. I need to stop making myself The Bad Guy.

I have no idea how I am going to do that.

I need something to make me angry – make me feel something other than depressed, which is a funk I have been unable to pull myself out of for a while now – and I need it within the next 30 minutes. I’m going to be talking to The Other Girl before Dean J, so that will help. I hope. Something probably will.