I Want A Tattoo

Tattoos and I have an interesting relationship. It's like skydiving: it sounds cool in concept, it seems like the kind of thing that everyone should try once, but if I realistically think about it, there's no way I'm doing that crap.

One time in college while I was working at a sandwich shop, a grizzly old man came in. He had a fuzzy, wibbly achor tattoo on his forearm which I thought was possibly the most badass thing I'd ever seen, because you know that thing was hand-chiseled by a fellow navy man.

The first time I ever considered that I might get a tattoo myself was after seeing the episode where Rachel gets a heart on her lower back/hip:


Because I'm pretty sure that's the first time I realized tattoos could be for non-sailors/women in the circus.

So of course at first I wanted a heart tatoo on my lower back. Because I was a very original teenager, and because the word "tramp stamp" hadn't been invented yet. Or if it had, I hadn't heard of it. But eventually this idea turned into me wanting a heart that was made out of the letters of my middle name: Joy. I told Teenage Boyfriend about this, and he designed one for me. Which of course ruined it for life. I've made some relationship mistakes in my day, but at least one of them has NOT been to get a tattoo that reminds me of a boy, no matter how convinced I was that we would be married and have billions of children.

So that was out. And for seven years or so, I hadn't come up with another tattoo I would want. There was nothing that I cared about enough to emblazon it on my body and know I would still care about it at forty.

Until recently.

I hold in my possession (ie my brain) one giant, awesome idea...and I don't know how to make it: I want a tattoo that says "Keep going" if you look at it from one way and "slow down" if you look at it from the other way. Like how this Princess Bride cover mind-blowingly reads upside down and right side up.



I think it would be rad. And I NEVER say rad, so you know I'm serious about it. I also like the idea of just the words "keep going" written on my hand so it looks best while you're writing, like in this position.


I also don't really know what that would look like either.

And before you get all "yikes that sounds like a terrible idea" because I know you and that is what you are saying, consider the idea of white or light ink, and consider that it could be small and classy.




I'm not going to get a tattoo now because I am in a fragile state and I'm pretty sure 99% of my ideas right now are ill-informed. So I'm holding off. Especially because I kinda just want to say EFF THIS and go with a connect-the-dots tattoo.


But again, small and classy. Like a little connect-the-dots kermit on my inner arm. COME ON, IT COULD BE GOOD, YOU DON'T KNOW.

What tattoo ideas do you have? What do you wish you had the guts to do but never will? What have you already had done? Regrets? No regrets? Comments!

Fears and Pet Peeves

"....Ancient History, Literature, and IT'S ALL RELATIVE." I'm sorry, but I'm a lady who likes to complete her Friends references. DEAL WITH IT.

Ahem. Well, hello. And how are YOU today? You're well? That's marvelous. Come, follow me into my chateau. Have a seat on this velvet armchair.

Sorry, I don't even know where I'm going with this, suddenly I just felt like pretending to talk like a Mrs. Robinson-type for no reason whatsoever. Also, a preemptive warning--if this post seems incomplete and has a lot of non-English words, it is either a) a typical post and you should be used to such things by now or b) prematurely posted by my cat who has decided that laptops are for walking across, and wrists are for wiping your nose on.

So as you are all aware by now, I am moving to San Francisco in a week. And as of today, I have an actual flight reservation, as does Regina (My god, she is going to hate flying SO HARD) and a moving company picked out. I'm nervous about the movers. These ones totally check out--they have an A rating with the BBB and everything. So it's not that they're sketchy, it's that I just assume everyone taking my money is trying to take MORE of my money. And let's be honest, that's probably a good assumption.

But they ask you for an itemized list of stuff, and damn me if I can remember what we jammed into that storage unit 4 months ago before Joe left. I had to guess the number of boxes. I said 30. It could be 100 and I wouldn't be surprised...we had an unnerving amount of things. And when you tell them it's a 1-bedroom, how do you explain that it's a 1-bedroom, but for two people, and one of those people may or may not own multiple sets of Star Wars figurines and a barrel? (A BARREL.) (.............A BARREL.) So I'm pretty freaked out that the movers will get there and be like "We won't move this barrel! It's not in a box!" or "We won't move these Star Wars figurines! You said there are 30 boxes total and there are 32 boxes of JUST Star Wars figurines!" or "We couldn't fit the mattress in the elevator so you owe us $4000 dollars." I don't know...I'm scared. I'm scared because I am not making money right now, and this move is going to be a son. of. a. bitch. And Joe already spent the money his work gave him to move on moving himself out there earlier.

Truth be told, I'm scared of a lot of things about this move. I'm finding that this fear is like the head on a pint of Guinness: It covers all the good stuff underneath, it's the only thing you can taste at first, and it follows you down through all that good stuff, too.



I don't know...I'm still working on my metaphors. Michelle is helping me, she is the Metaphor Master.

My biggest fear is in going bankrupt. I'm going to be paying a lot more for rent in SF than in Chicago, and unemployment isn't going to get me through for very long; neither is temp work or Starbucks. I'm going to need a real person job. And I'm scared I won't be able to find one. San Francisco is filled with tons of great places to work. But it seems like they're all just 10 people per company, and I'm filled with fears that tiny companies won't take a chance on an unknown kid.

I'm also afraid of homesickness. I haven't felt really homesick since college, and even then my emotions were more about pining for dreamy Teenage Boyfriend. I'm moving far away from my family for the first time, so even though we have the internet, I can't go visit them for a weekend whenever I want. A lot of my friends have scattered (Again. I was hoping post-college would have been the last of it but NAY.) but those who are still nearby won't be able to visit and we can't go out for drinks. Even if I haven't seen some friends for a while, just knowing they're in Chicago or even in the Midwest feels comforting, knowing we can hang out if we WANTED.

I'm afraid San Francisco won't feel right. Y'all know me, I move ALL the time. What if I start feeling the need to move cities every year? I don't have that kind of money. Despite people's assertions that it's the best city ever, that you can make of it what you want, and that I personally am going to love it...I'm blindly afraid that I won't. What if I start resenting the hills? or the less-than awesome transportation system? Or the smaller-than-Chicago feel of it all?

I can tell myself a million times that the pros WILL outweigh the cons. I can tell myself about all the reasons SF is going to be awesome. And I do. And I even tell OTHER people why SF is going to be awesome. I hear it. I think about it. But no matter what I do, the foam still stays on top of the Guinness, keeping me from really enjoying the good stuff under it. So while, yes, I know everything will be okay and things will work out and I'm going to love it, I wouldn't be honest if I said I'm totally fine about it all. I'm not--I'm scared.

I guess I shouldn't be afraid for one reason and one reason only. And that one reason is lkookloddddddfffbbbbbbbbbbbhhh

Two Unrelated Things That Are Too Pointless For Their Own Blog Posts But Too Long For A Facebook Status Message

1. You know the saying "dress for the job you want, not the one you have?" Well I read somewhere long ago (likely YM or Seventeen Magazine) that you should dress as though you'll run into your ex that day. It was probably some article about how to move on after a break up, but I think about that concept every day that I ACTUALLY feel cute enough to run into my ex.

I especially think about it now because Monica told me that Teenage Boyfriend works within a few blocks from me. I don't know exactly where or what his schedule is, but I know he takes the Water Tower Express Bus, because she sees him on there all the time after work. I'm going to be straight with you: one day I was looking particularly awesome and I could have taken that bus, although a different route was shorter. I sat at work for like half an hour pondering if it was worth it. I finally decided to NOT be a crazy person--possibly for the first time in my life--and went with the other bus.

The thing is, I would LOVE to look cute enough at all times and feel confident enough to run into my ex. But that would be exhausting. I just can't be arsed (YEAH, I SAID IT) to care that much about how I look at all times. And sometimes, even when I'm trying to look good, I just don't. Sometimes my hair is doing a thing. Or I thought the shirt didn't have pit stains but in natural sunlight it most DEFINITELY does.

It is my lot in life that when I look in the mirror and think, "Daaamn, grrl. MMMMMnnn!" I will see no one of consequence that day. But the day when I go to the gym with no makeup, in bike shorts and a shirt from our college newspaper barcrawl where we decided it would be hilarious to write "Putting Out For Free 5 Times A Week" on the back...THAT is the day I will run into my ex. Him or Future Husband John Krasinski.

GOD, that shirt. WHY DON'T I JUST THROW IT AWAY?!?!?! (Oh right.)




2. I hurt. And I don't know if it's because I'm getting old or if it's some medical condition where my muscle is slowly all turning into bone like that one lady on Grey's Anatomy/House/whatever the hell doctor show that was on. But seriously, I cannot sit on a picnic blanket anymore. Actually, really, I cannot sit in any position that isn't either 90 or 180 degrees.

What the what?

I'm 26. And YOU ALL keep telling me that I'm in the prime of my life! I'm young! I'm healthy! I should be skydiving off of cliffs whilst doing jumping jacks! And yet...half an hour sitting cross-legged and I'm pretty sure all the cartilage in my knees have left and moved to my lower back. Also, I have an eerie amount of grey hair. I'm talking ER-era George Clooney, and in the same place, right at the temples. On him? Sexy. On me? Wirey and awkward. It used to be funny, all, "oh haha! A grey hair?! That's crazy because I am ever so young." Not anymore. It's time to start dying. And I do not have the money for this crap. I'm too young to have to constantly dye my hair! I don't even have a stable job yet!

Is this the way our society is moving? We'll finally have steady jobs and be moved out of our parent's basements and ready to have kids at 60? WHAT IS THE WORLD COMING TO?! *shakes fist at neighborhood kids and puts dentures back in*

Honestly, if I'm supposed to be as malleable and springy as people older than me keep assuring, I think I may have a CONDITION. Like, I should go to the doctor or a masseuse and DEMAND that they make all these ailments go away. I bet Beyonce doesn't have to deal with this kind of thing. Then again, she run the world.

Happy Valentine's Day Everybody!

As someone whose first kiss was the day before Valentine's Day, self-started and off-centered, here's to every movie that raises first kiss expectations to an unattainable level.

Synesthesia: I See Dead People (In An Oddly Specific Historical Timeline)

I think I have a condition. For real, guys. It's not a disease, it's not a disorder, it is a condition, and it's called synesthesia.

They don't know a whole bunch about it because it's neurological and since scientists are only a few years out from "you wish you had a penis, now bite down on this bar while we pump you with electricity like you are in the Pit Of Dispair," there isn't much that anyone knows about the brain. But basically the condition has to do with pathways in the brain getting crossed, leading to people assigning colors to numbers, or personalities to letters, that kind of thing.

So yes. I am self-diagnosed with at least mild synesthesia ever since they featured it on the Stuff You Should Know podcast (which I told you about here and here). But, if podcasts and Wikipedia are always correct and accurate, and I'm pretty sure they are, then I have it. Specifically I have number form synesthesia, which is when you see numbers or dates spatially. There's a little description of it on Wikipedia, along with two people's drawings of what they see. Check it out.

For me, I see years spatially on a timeline--but the timeline isn't always straight, and different decades get more space than others. It's weird, I've never actually drawn it out, but I was trying to describe it to Joe and he wanted to know what I saw. So I drew it, here:



(also I'm considering throwing dyslexia in the mix for my inability at writing numbers in the right order) (and in case you can't read my handwriting, that's the nineties popping out in 3D)

After I looked at it and not just in my mind, I could see pretty clearly why my timeline looks like that--the years that seem to have had more going on, or that were more important to me, get more space on the line. The forties tend to just hang out with the fifties because I know next to nothing about the forties, but the eighties get all kinds of space--maybe because I need room for all the important dates, like when I and two of my siblings were born. Then the nineties had more significance to me because I actually remember them better, and they start coming toward me.

I told Joe that 1899 would start again on the right, like on new piece of paper. He asked if 2000 then is on the left. And I said "Yeah. Well, no wait...it's not...I actually don't know where the 2000s are." Finally, I realized that it's because I have different visuals to remind me of the 2000s: places in my high school, teachers, my hair, my clothes, Teenage Boyfriend. I actually had memories, so I don't have a timeline for those years. But anything from 1999 and earlier, and especially the 20th century, has a very specific place in the line. If someone says "Yeah, that happened back in 1973," I visualize it in a place on the line--in this case, right in the middle.

Another thing they're connecting to synesthesia is the ability to feel touch when someone else is touched. Which I don't have. OR DO I?! Because I cannot handle watching people in serious pain. From people falling off trampolines on AFV to movies with torture or serial murders or scalping *SHUDDER, SHUDDER, MASSIVE SHUDDER* I know this is true of a lot of people--people like me, who can't handle scary movie trailers, and take issue with the Last Of The Mohicans. Maybe it's synesthesia? *shrug*, Wikipedia didn't dive into that one, so I have no answers.

Anyway, I know this wasn't a knee slapper, but I thought I'd bring it up. You know, in case we've got a meat v. meet situation on our hands, and there's anyone else out there who's realizing that not EVERYONE thinks seven tastes like bananas.

When Spiders Attack

Before we begin, may I remind you to become a fan on Facebook if you so choose, so you can get updates on my updates.

I need to ask you guys something, to find out if I am normal or not. [Insert *Oh, Emily, you’re NEVER normal! HAR!* joke here]

I understand that I am mainly alone in my irrational fear of whales.
And I understand that, while some also believed it was “making ends meat,” in the end, I was wrong.

But tell me I’m not alone on this one: Spiders while you are naked are 500 times scarier than spiders at any other time.

I alluded to this fear during a 'My Monday' comic. Yes, it’s all hilarious when I am a stick-figure. But seriously that morning I almost gave myself a heart attack. CORRECTION: That spider sneaking up on me all quiet-like and drinking my shower water almost gave me a heart attack.

I guess it’s just the whole vulnerability factor? I don’t know, I can’t quite place it. But...okay. Let me take you back in time.

In college, while I was still with Teenage Boyfriend, I decided to take a break from our Family Guy-and-campus-food marathon to shower. I’m in there, minding my own biz, when I look up and lo and behold, a spider on the ceiling. Whimpering but with shampoo in my hair and no feasible means of escape, I watch the spider, unblinking and trembling. And that’s when it happens.

The spider moves.

Not only does it move, but it moves TOWARD ME. And of course the ceiling is all moist from condensation, so the spider is walking on shaky ground. It lifts one leg and seems to dangle there for a moment. So I did what any God-and-spider-fearing person would do: I splashed water toward it. I was hoping this would send the message to the spider of, “Hey now. Back off. There is more where this came from and I am not afraid to drown you.”

APPARENTLY the message sent was, “Hey, friend! Wanna play tag? YOU'RE IT!” The spider crawled closer. And closer.

And at this point, I’m not afraid to admit it. I screamed. Yes, screamed. Because a spider had taken maybe 3 steps closer to me.

Teenage Boyfriend called through the door, “Are you okay?”

Through my tears I managed to call out, “Sss...sp...spider...”

“Are you serious?”

I turned off the shower, wrapped a towel around myself and opened the door, looking not-unlike this (minus the hook and mustache)


TB grabbed a wad of toilet paper, reached up, and got the bugger. My hero. I returned to my shower, shaking mildly from the memories.


A second story. This time, I am living on the 1st floor in Chicago. Sadly, this is before I had spider-killing foster Super Kitty. I am alone. I am alone, and on the toilet. When I stand up, what do I see on the tank behind me?

AN ENORMOUS SPIDER.

But not even a regularly enormous spider, but a spider with legs the length of a small crane. It is like the queen bee of Daddy Long Legs.

Which means:
1) That spider was like ONE inch away from me while I was half-naked and it probably saw all my bits and is making a mental note to tell all its friends about it.
2) It could have reached out and touched me *shudder, shudder*
3) Now I have an uncrushable spider, because its legs are so long, they will crunch. CRUNCH, PEOPLE. I DO NOT KILL THINGS THAT CRUNCH.

But I can’t just let this spider hang out. Something that was that close to me SHALL NOT be allowed to come near me again. And I also can’t kill it. And I can’t ask my boyfriend to squish it because at this point I was dating The Irishman and he was all living in Ireland and such. And I couldn’t make Sara do it because she was away being an actress.

So it is Emily v. Spider. What can I do? OH! I know. I can put it in some kind of receptacle and take it outside. Genius.

I run to the kitchen and grab some expendable Tupperware (because God knows I’m throwing that bowl away once this spider has touched it) and I slam it over the spider, who has now moved onto the wall. Except...crap. I forgot to get a cover for the Tupperware.

So now I am standing like this


And I have no escape. I can’t move the Tupperware, because now the spider is hip to my scheme (mraaah, see) and will quickly run and hide while I go find a top. Luckily, and mysteriously, I actually had some packing tape nearby. I don’t know what it was doing in my bathroom. I assume I was making funny faces in the mirror with it. But it was there nonetheless. So I do what any normal person would do: I tape the Tupperware to the wall and text Sara to get home because it’s an EMERGENCY.

Sara comes storming in like a bat out of hell, rushing through the apartment yelling "WHERE?! WHAT?! WHAT DO YOU NEED?!"

I whimpered in a tiny-yet-terrified voice from the bathroom, "In here!"

Sara runs over, sees the situation, rolls her eyes in a World Award-Winning eye roll, and disposes of the spider properly for me. My hero.

So this is where I stand in the World of Spiders:
-If I am clothed, the spider is terrifying.
-If I am naked, the spider will potentially kill me and my unborn children.
-If the SPIDER is clothed, it is...hilarious?

Thoughts?

Crush Them

People often ask me: "Emily, how have you been so lucky in love? You always seem to be in a relationship. Tell me your secret." Well today is your lucky day, my friends. Because I am here to give you a run down of all my childhood crushes. Perhaps there is something to it. A pattern that you can learn from.

We'll start at the very beginning.



Preschool: John R.
John is my husband. How do I know this? Because I very vividly remember getting married to him. I wore a veil (my baby blanket) my brother was the ring bearer (he used his own bed pillow) and my sister was the master of ceremonies (she held a children's picture book Bible for us to lay our hands on.) We got married on my mini trampoline in the middle of the living room.

John and I were soulmates. We each had big wheels. I don't think I need to explain anything further. And just because he moved to the other side of the world (1/2 an hour away) doesn't mean that we aren't still meant for each other.

Kindergarten: Kevin L.
The only thing I remember about my crush on Kevin L. was that I always tried to stand in the same place in the girls' line as he was in the boys'. Not to talk to him. Not to touch him. Just to stand there pretending like his large ears weren't making my insides all squishy.

My mother tells me that I sent Kevin L a love letter. It was quite literally, "Roses are red, violets are blue, sugar is sweet and so are you." First of all, where the hell did I learn this poem when I was five? Secondly, no hilarious puns? No bait-and-switch? Just a plain, boring poem? I'm disappointed in you, Mini Emily. You're better than that.

From here there was a bit of a breather from boys when I considered them gross and dumb (probably true.) But then one day I woke up to realize who my true love really was:

4th & 5th Grade: Mike D.
Mike. Was. Hilarious. He could quote SNL. I'm almost positive the whole school knew of my secret admiration, even though the only move I ever made toward him was picking him to go to the library with me instead of my best friend, Tiffany. Tiffany was...(how to put this?)...displeased.

6th Grade: Lenny N.
Lenny was the first boy that I could talk to like a normal person. About what, I couldn't say. God knows it certainly wasn't about my new braces or the fact that I was the mortified owner of a new forest green AA sports bra.

Lenny moved at the end of the school year and Tiffany convinced me to call him and ask for his new address. When I finally got up the courage (it took a few days) I forgot to get the zip code. And in a time before Google, I had no idea how to find it without admitting to my parents why I needed it. I spent the summer pining and listening to sad Disney songs. True story.

7th Grade: Jeremy M.
Jeremy was funny. And a little mean. And weird. And he parted his gelled hair to the side. And I couldn't have wanted him more. I tried to ask him out once. This was how I did it:

Emily: Hey, have you seen Titanic yet?
Jeremy: God, no.
Emily: You should.

Um, helloooo? Could I have BEEN more obvious? I can't believe he didn't pick up on my subtlety.

8th Grade: Teenage Boyfriend.
TB was not my "B" yet, per say. But this was my first encounter with him and I was SMITTEN. He had a bowl cut, which was hott with two t's. I will never forget the first words he said to me. I asked him what grade he was in. He said, "8th. I skipped the 7th grade because I'm so smart." And then he ran into a glass door.

It was love. But it took a year or so for him to succumb to my wiles. In the meantime, there was--

8th Grade: Scott N.
Scott is the boy of this fame. I have no more to say on the matter. 8th grade was a busy time for me, crush wise. For there was also--

8th Grade: Kevin W.
Kevin was very weird. But he amazed me-- he didn't seem to give a damn about what people thought. He wore a neon green shirt and had hair the shape of broccoli. I had a fantasy about him where we'd make cookies and end up in a flour fight. I had high aspirations as a fourteen-year-old.

I actually called Kevin from our kitchen phone (Michelle listening intently nearby) and asked him to be my boyfriend. Straight up asked him. None of this Titanic nonsense. I believe his response was "Uhhhhh....sure." What a dreamboat.

We went on one date to see Notting Hill, and then he left for the summer to live with his dad. When he came back, we didn't speak for four years. It's a damn shame because when we finally became friends again at the end of high school, it turns out he was pretty much awesome and I had been right all along about how cool he was. Also, he trimmed the broccoli hair. Another damn shame.

High School: Wes Z.
Most of my high school career was spent in the arms of Teenage Boyfriend. But there was a time without him. That time was spent thinking lovingly of Wes Z. Wes was one of those boys who you think is hot, but you don't think anyone else has figured it out. Let me tell you a little story.

In my senior yearbook, after I had put him behind me, Wes had written a little blurb, and at the end it said, "I put my signature by my picture on pg 78 so you'll have it when I'm a famous golfer." and then quickly scribbled after that, "Who wrote 'hottie' by my pic? haha...call me."

I furiously flipped to page 78 and Monica, God love her, had drawn little purple hearts and flowers all over Wes' picture with "hottie!" and an arrow. Oh, Mon. You wonderful girl, you. Too bad this was way after my crush, and Teenage Boyfriend and I were back in action. Otherwise, who knows? I may have become Mrs. Emily Z.


And there you have it. Hopefully it is now obvious to you how high above I soar than everyone else. I have been a love master since the beginning, clearly. I hope you can all use my experience to better your own.

Good luck, and God bless.

Hey I Was A Teenage Dirtbag, Baby

I could not fall asleep last night. And do you know why? It wasn't because I was stressed. It wasn't because I had a big day ahead of or behind me. It wasn't because I'd had a Dr. Pepper for dinner and was more wired than a cat on narcotics.

It was because of something I did my freshman year of high school. Let me back up.

I've never explained to you about Teenage Boyfriend. I call him Teenage Boyfriend not because he is a teenager now (weird) but because I was literally in love with him from the age of 13 through the age of 20. I even managed to date him for four of those years. He loved me, I loved him...he was hot...what else is there to say? We were going to get married and have a million babies and no one could convince me otherwise. Those who tried just DIDN'T UNDERSTAND. What part of he-knows-my-favorite-TCBY-flavor-it's-real-love aren't you people hearing??

So TB and I were about 15 when my church did a talent show. A talent show which I wanted to be a part of. The only problem is, I had no real talent. Um, I could play the Apollo 13 song on my trumpet? No...all my trumpet endeavors always ended badly and usually involved clogged spit valves. What else can I showcase for a few dozen people? Oh I know. My undying love for Teenage Boyfriend. This is sure to go well.

God. I don't know WHY I did 99% of the things I did when I was 15, but I really think this one takes the cake. So I decided that my genius idea would be to take the lyrics to this ever-so classic song:


...and I would slightly rewrite it. And then sing it. A capella. In front of my church. To my 15-year-old boyfriend.

*facepalm*

Honestly, the memory of that day will live in infamy in my mind. It is so embarrassing to me now that I literally lay awake at night, tossing and turning at the thought. WHY. WHY did you do that? I had to BEG my boyfriend to come to the talent show in the first place. I'm not actually a marvelous singer, so I'm sure there was off-key warbling in there, too. Then after I sang it, my father (who was of course the MC of the night) said, "Thank you, Emily. That was...enlightening." I turned bright red and sat down. There was polite (and probably embarrassed) clapping, and I'm not sure TB even said a word to me or looked at me. He was completely mortified. I had been so convinced that everyone would think it was so cute, and my boyfriend would find me endearing and think I was just the best girlfriend in the whole wide world. Instead, I got avoided glances for the rest of the night, and a few people lightly clapping me on the shoulder as if to say, "Buck up, Sport."

I just needed to tell you all about it, because holding it inside for one more day was one more day of me showing the world that I think my behavior was acceptable. And it wasn't.

But really, now that I read over it, maybe it wasn't the worst thing to happen in the world. It's not like I sang it naked or something. I was an innocent, hormone-ridden teenager in love. Was it so stupid to sing to her boyfriend that she wanted to grow old with him? *shudder, shudder* Yes it was. Yes it was indeed.

Blech. Does that Eternal Sunshine memory-erasing contraption thing exist yet? I would really appreciate it.