As Weapon Rules Go, Combi-weapons Are One Of The Most Intuitive:

Parallel

Recently, there has been a spate of articles in the following format: "Anti-vaccination, anti-mask advocate dies from COVID complications". Sometimes as often as one or two a day.

I don't take pleasure in the passing of others; even those that are ideologically opposed to me. From the perspective of our collective well-being, they are at best dangerously misguided and at worst, sociopathic. However, they also had friends, family, loved ones; and they will be missed.

I do feel it appropriate to note that the net value of humanity has gone up in their absence; which I consider a sufficiently damning indictment.

More so however, an interesting parallel has presented itself:

The onset of the AIDS epidemic claimed the lives of numerous gay men; men that could have gone on to become speakers, organizers, leaders in their community. They were handed a death sentence by a disease they had no forewarning of, no knowledge as to how they might protect themselves; and as a result, an entire generation of the 'G' portion of LGBT advocacy is simply... missing.

President Ronald Reagan's slothful response to the issue, and the general mischaracterization of AIDS by social regressives as a wrathful, immorality-seeking illness are well documented.

There is now an irony to be found: that these same people are seeing their membership chipped away by a virus that they deny is real, is contagious, is dangerous.

There is a key difference, of course: these people have been offered all of the tools necessary to protect themselves; they simply have chosen not to use them.

Again, I don't delight in their suffering. I am, however, interested to see how the landscape of conservative advocacy will be reshaped by the needless loss of these people.

How it started, versus how it's going...

I grew up in the UK, 30 minutes from Games Workshop's Nottingham headquarters; and my childhood heavily featured their games, miniatures, and routine trips to the local Games Workshop store.

During this time, I developed a particular affection for the work of Jes Goodwin. Initially an artist and sculptor, Jes' work was strongly geometric in nature; and displayed an unusually high degree of consistency (a particularly noteworthy achievement during a period where miniatures were sculpted by hand with ad-hoc tools).

For reference - one of Jes' early sketches of a Space Marine in Mk. VI armor; as featured in the guide that accompanied the very first Space Marine paint set:

I actually had the pleasure of meeting Jes in person at Games Day '94; and one of my treasured possessions is the souvenir program, which he kindly autographed:

During my teenage years, I came to possess a handful of Chaos Champions sculpted by Jes. As was so often the case in those early years, the miniatures had been designed as dual use; combining the sort of medieval aesthetics that would warrant inclusion in the Warhammer Fantasy Battle setting, but also the occasional technological greeble that would justify use in Warhammer: 40,000.

As I generally kept to the latter system, I set about cutting up and remodeling these miniatures, with the aim of making the science-fiction elements more explicit. And I was very happy with the end results, too!... Which makes it all the more unfortunate that these miniatures were lost when I relocated to the US.

Two decades later, and I have taken it upon myself to recreate these miniatures (albeit with the full advantage of the skills I have developed in the interim). The first mini on the chopping block is 021919 from the 1989 Citadel Catalog (frequently referred to by its most obvious physical characteristic, "Nurgle Chaos Champion With Fly Mutation"):

(It feels vaguely sacrilegious, taking a razor saw to what is now technically an antique; but I very much subscribe to the DIY mentality that was so prevalent during the initial Rogue Trader days, and - given that the model originates for the same time period - keeping the old traditions alive seems only appropriate.)

In my original conversion, I removed the haft and blade of the axe; and positioned an old Space Ork plasma cannon over the now unobscured shoulder. I also replaced the sandaled foot and exposed fly-mutated leg with their armored equivalents from a Space Marine Devastator.

This time I around, I opted to angle the right arm, to add a greater sense of movement; and completely reposition the left arm, as if to calling out a target:

(In doing so, I created a great many headaches for myself: the right hand snapped off at the wrist, and had to be repaired. Cutting the left arm free necessitated cutting through the hand; and the pins I inserted into the remains of the palm broke free, requiring JB Weld to resecure.

I cannot underscore the frustration inherent to these two experiences; at the same time, I'm a great believer in the idea that growth as an artist demands taking risks - up to and including potentially ruining one's art.)

The original version of the conversion also featured an extended barrel (fabricated from the Lord Fuegan's firepike, and a handful of random Genestealer claws). However, I wanted to replace this with something a little more appropriate for a follower of the Lord Of Pestilence; which ended up being the better part of a Plague Spewer:

In terms of next steps: I intend to strap a canister of goo-based ammunition to his left side; and continue to add new detailing to hide the various cuts and joins.

Another Test

It came to my attention this afternoon that a colleague had left the office on Friday, feeling unwell; and come Saturday had tested positive for COVID. This individual is someone that works two offices down for mine and is often in close proximity.

This meant, of course, that it would be wise of me to go get tested again. The last time I was tested, it triggered a lengthy flashback.

(As always, I stress: my response to these kinds of medical scenarios is a result of my PTSD, and not an indictment of medicine. Get tested, get vaccinated, protect yourselves and others!)

Anyhow: I wasn't super thrilled about this turn of events, and let my boss know that I was heading out and most likely would not be back for the day. He did very kindly point out that we had some test kits in-office (allegedly; nobody seemed to know where); to which I countered that the last thing my coworkers needed to see was me in tears.

Fast forward: the system for registering an appointment at the test site worked well this time; and apart from a small hiccup (they had moved a mile down the road to a new location), everything was pretty much the same. The technician asked me to sit in the car and came back with a swab and sample vial.

Now, here's where things differed slightly: when my spouse was initially tested (all the way back at the start of the pandemic), the swap took the form of an elongated Q-Tip. Having this pushed all the way to the back of the sinuses was unpleasant; but I understand the discomfort subsided quickly as soon as the test was completed.

When I was tested for the first time, the swap had clearly been updated with comfort in mind: there was a thin, flexible plastic stem with a small, soft, sponge on the tip. It wasn't inserted fully into the sinus, and frankly, there was no pain or discomfort to speak of.

This is what I was expecting to see again; so imagine my unpleasant surprise when the technician withdrew from its sterile wrapping what I can only describe as a fiercely-bristled pipe cleaner.

The technician proceeded to tell me to hold my breath for five seconds, which was also a new and highly discouraging change in procedure.

I warned her that I might be somewhat unresponsive after the test was administered and not to take that personally; and she understood. Then came the part where I tilted my head back, closed my eyes, and felt this monstrosity enter my left nostril. The technician counted to five while sawing this thing back and forth along every side of my sinus cavity.

To be clear: I am no stranger to unpleasant sensations (which I will note shortly). This, however, was absolutely misery-inducing. I broke down crying the moment the technician turned away from me.

Six hours later, and my sinuses still hurt. They itch, constantly; and my nose has been running all evening. I cannot possibly fathom which person thought it was a good idea to take what was already an invasive, annoying test - and make it infinitely worse.

Communication

“A European says: 'I can't understand this, what's wrong with me?' An American says: 'I can't understand this, what's wrong with him?'" - Terry Pratchett

I had the privilege of attending a university with an extremely large contingent of foreign students; many of which I counted as friends, and learned a great deal from.

Sometimes their command of the English language would fail them, and they would apologize. Each time I would say the same thing: "You speak English much better than I speak any other language. You have nothing to apologize for".

This trend has continued over to my IT department, which has featured from inception various individuals of international origin. Occasionally these team members would hit a language barrier, and I would do my best to patiently explain and / or listen to them.

Frustratingly, I found that some of my American colleagues were not willing to similarly engage. Like all such generalizations, there are plenty of diverging outliers; but there is most definitely a tendency in American culture to blame communication failures on the other party.

Some years ago we employed a Soviet emigrant; an exceptionally intelligent and knowledgeable individual, but someone for whom English was not a strength. This wasn't an issue until he was moved - against my protests - into a position that required significant communication skills; and ultimately this became his undoing and he was dismissed.

I was saddened to learn today that this same situation has been repeated with another non-native English-speaking colleague. She was assigned new responsibilities that required an extensive amount of communication and coordination (despite being initially hired in on the strength of her technical skills); and now she too has been dismissed.

Perhaps I am oversimplifying; but it is very difficult to see these conflicts as the one-way failure that termination of employment would suggest.

Test

Last week I was at Minneapolis' very own CONvergence convention. A fantastic time was had! Obviously, attending a large public event in the current viral climate is not without risk; but I felt considerably more secure in matters given that (a) the organizers had capped attendance at 3,500 (half the size of the previous year), (b) required all attendees show proof of vaccination and (c) instituted a mask mandate.

Unfortunately, post-event, it was determined that an attendee has tested positive for COVID and had informed the organizers as such. They in turn notified all other event-goers, and provided information on the afflicted individual's path through the convention for contract-tracing purposes.

Unfortunately, it transpired that the two of us had attended a panel together; and despite the extremely unlikely possibility of having contracted COVID from this person, the sensible course of action was to go get tested myself.

This did not fill me with joy. As I have previously documented, there is a facet of my younger self - splintered by trauma - that bristles at certain medical interventions... And I knew this would be one of them.

At the start of the pandemic, my spouse required a routine medical procedure; and in advance of that, was required to get a COVID test. I drove them to the in-car test site, and my spouse rolled down the passenger-side window to talk to a fully geared-up nurse.

As many are no doubt aware, those first COVID tests required collecting a sample from the very, very furthest reaches of the sinuses; using what is essentially an extremely long Q-Tip. While not necessarily a painful experience, it can be irritating at best and deeply unpleasant at worst.

Both my spouse and I were a little taken aback when the nurse instructed them to tilt their head back and place their hands firmly on their knees because, and I quote, "Trust me, you will try to stop me".

The nurse swabbed my spouse's sinuses, and it was fine, and other than my spouse feeling like they had been somehow poked in the back of the eyeball, all was good. I, however, was a nervous wreck; because this act had in my mind overstepped the threshold of acceptable bodily integrity violation.

(How does that work? I can't say, as it isn't rational. I am pro-science, pro-safety, pro-vaccine; but the damaged part of me responds viscerally and insensibly to certain medical procedures - evidently of which, this was one.)

Later, my spouse experienced a terrible cold; and their general practitioner recommended another COVID test to be safe. This was at a walk-in clinic, and even though I remained in the car, I still ended up shaking at the thought that my beloved was being harmed in some way.

I have spent far too much time since then conceiving of how I might be required to submit to a COVID test myself some day, and how that would effect me. Fast-forward to that day.

There was a no-appointment clinic near our house. They have a rather slick online registration system; there were some issues completing the process, but a person met me at the parking lot and helped finalize matters. Then they went to retrieve their test apparatus.

Now, to the credit of the test manufacturers: they had clearly taken steps to improve the (deservedly-maligned) collection kit. The swab was a little shorter; no longer needed to reach the very back of the sinuses; featured a very slim, flexible stem (particularly helpful for deviated septum-sufferers); and the cotton tip had been replaced by a small, gentle sponge.

The technician was very nice and explained that they would gently hold the swab in place for the count of five, and in turn I explained that I'm sure everything would be fine and painless - but there was a possibility that I might become upset afterwards and that it was absolutely not their fault.

Then I scrunched up my eyes and held my hedgehog friend very tightly and the technician inserted the swab in my nose and ran it about inside my head and true to her word, the experience was not in the slightest bit unpleasant.

I then proceeded to thank her, albeit stutteringly, because as predicted this invasion of my bodily space had still had a triggering effect. I received my results less than an hour later and they were, of course, negative. Three hours after that, I stopped crying.

It's so strange - yesterday I had laser hair removal; and per my request, the technician turned the power up quite high. There were some moments when it really stung; but... nothing. Not a trigger. Likewise, in a few days I have to get my second HPV immunization; and despite knowing that it will sting (the manufacturer attests this to the "Virus-like particles" it contains), that should be fine too.

Why am I freaked out by some medical procedures, and not others? I really don't know. Probably there's a logic to it; but if there's a pattern, I've yet to discern it...

Cellulitis

For the uninitiated, cellulitis is a bacterial infection under the surface of the skin. It isn’t so bad by itself - some redness, some swelling - but by virtue of being trapped below the surface, it often takes medical intervention to clear. Additionally, if untreated, it can lead to some nasty and potentially fatal complications (like necrotizing fasciitis and blood poisoning).

I’m familiar with the premise as a couple of years ago I had a bout on my kneecap thanks to - of all things - the tiniest of ingrown hairs; one course of antibiotics and all was well in the world.

Until. Until.

As I have reported previously, my first few months of Estradiol shots went well (barring a period of psyching myself out). Thereafter, everything was good... Until the day I got a big, red, ugly patch at the injection site.

“Oh,” I say to myself, “I’ve really screwed up”. I fastidiously ensure that my medicine vial, needles, and leg are sterile; but evidently somewhere along the way I missed a step.

I went to see my family doctor; he agrees that it’s cellulitis (even deeper than normal as the bacteria was fundamentally injected an inch into my thigh muscle), proscribes doxycycline; and I’m on my way. (There was a slight detour where I suffered the most agonizing heartburn of my life in response to that particular antibiotic, but that’s neither here nor there.)

Fast forward: next shot, and the same thing happens. Like an idiot, I suddenly realize: “I’m using the same vial of Estradiol as last time; and it’s contaminated”.

(I should have thrown it out as a precaution; but the cost of American healthcare tends to breed a conservationist approach to medications. Plus, it honestly didn’t occur to me at the time.)

My doc probably thought I was an idiot but thankfully did not offer his opinion.

I bought more Estradiol, and was perhaps three shots into the new vial WHEN THE SAME THING HAPPENS AGAIN.

And I’m in tears. I don’t understand what it is I’m doing wrong; there’s so much surplus alcohol on my skin that the needle burns going in. There’s simply no way I can carry on with an injection regimen that results in an infection each and every time.

Thankfully, in this particular instance, it was a very small instance of cellulitis and cleared by itself. I was pretty shook up all the same.

My next best guess was that the Estradiol was being stored at the wrong temperature. It’s supposed to be at room temperature (which is classified as something like 68 - 75º F). I kept my medicine in our bathroom closet; and while I checked the temperature in there and it never seemed over range, the closet does back directly only the location of our furnace.

I also asked my endocrinology clinic if I should be storing my Estradiol in the refrigerator, and their answer could be summarized as: “IDK, maybe? It’s worth a try”.

(This isn’t an attack on them - they are great! As much as I wish it were otherwise however, trans individuals represent a small slice of the population. Medical provider experience is directly proportional to the sort of ailments they treat; and Estradiol storage issues are not something that commonly end up on their radar. This is one of the reasons why it’s so important for trans folk to become experts in and advocates of their own medical needs.)

Anyhow, I moved the medicine to the bedroom and so far, that seems to have done the trick!

My reason for mentioning this however is as follows: yesterday, post-injection, I had some major soreness in my thigh (as if someone had punched me right in the muscle). Most likely it was just regular, garden-variety soreness; but the sensation was close enough to the early onset of cellulitis that I seriously started freaking out.

Thankfully it’s calmed down today, and there isn’t a patch of redness in sight. Still: the trials and tribulations to go through!

Two more tests

For the duration of my tenure with my current employer, there has been an IT Guy. He is older than me, and has twice as much practical experience.

Unfortunately, he is prone to failures of common sense. I know him as someone that chooses his tools based on his own personal level of interest (as opposed to their suitability), and frequently over-complicates each and every task in front of him.

It is not possible for him to be removed from the company; therefore he has instead been moved to a position in which his ability to disrupt IT proceedings has been minimized: that of company compliance officer.

For the most part he has left IT alone, except for occasionally requiring that we demonstrate our systems have various redundancies and backups in place. (This was spurred, in part, to mitigate against the possibility of a production system resource group being inadvertently deleted... after he did just that.)

A few weeks ago I walked into the kitchen to find him wearing a mask (uncharacteristic) and blowing his nose loudly. “Don’t worry!” he said, “It’s not COVID”! (Truly, confidence-inspiring.)

Well, wouldn’t you know it but a few days later both I and a fellow IT employee get hit with The Cold From Hell. So... I had to go get another test done. (Thankfully, no insane pipe-cleaner swab this time.) Fortuitously, it was negative.

All the same, my long weekend was ruined by the misery of illness. I return to the office, and have a talk with my boss about how our compliance officer - the man chiefly responsible for ensuring business continuity (i.e. that everything keeps working in the event of a crisis) - brought a transmissible illness into our work environment during a pandemic.

A week, nearly two goes by; and I suddenly develop a sore throat (welp) as Omicron numbers soar. My spouse - who contracted the cold from me - is likewise experiencing chest symptoms. So off we go, again, to get tested.

The chief reason I keep returning to the same testing location is because they do not require appointments, they are quick, and turnaround on results is usually within the hour. Thus, imagine my surprise when I see that the parking lot is completely filled with cars, and learn that turnaround time is now closer to six hours.

This Omicron business is something else. Part of my would like to write in detail about how we’re (a) right back to square one in terms of required measures to prevent transmission (quarantine; mask mandates; public gathering limits) and how (b) absolutely none of these things are happening.

i will defer for present. I was so convinced this time around that COVID had caught up to us; because I have never experienced before a common cold that caused a sore throat weeks after initial sinus symptoms; and this revelation initiated a twenty hour-long panic attack. I am desperately trying to put such things out of mind at present.

Suffice to say: the tests were negative. I am in many respects glad; but also concerned (for the cold is doing a real number on my lungs, and I worry how that might compound an actual COVID infection). Such is life.

I’m not sure there’s any moral in this story; other than the general sense that we could have handled the pandemic far better, were it not for the widespread lack of common sense that my coworker typifies... And that I am very much fed up of having my bodily integrity violated with sample collection swabs.

Interview

So; a funny thing happened at work today!

We're trying to hire in a junior developer. My boss is great at interviewing; but software development is outside of his area of expertise (he's more of a network / infrastructure guy), so he really wanted my input on this.

I straight-up told him: "You need another me; a generalist that can do everything from front-end to back-end, and more importantly, can figure out how to do things they have no prior experience with".

Fast-forward: we have a candidate coming in for an in-person interview. Two items peak my interest:

She's female. (This absolutely shouldn't be remarkable; but unfortunately, there is still a very, very heavy gender imbalance in the software world.)

Her name was simultaneously contemporary and fashionable, yet rare.

This really made me wonder... And my suspicions were confirmed when I entered our conference room and saw that she had bright blue hair.

I can only wonder what her thought process was - how intimidating it must be to walk into a prospective job interview as a trans woman, only for one of the interviewers to be introduced.... as a trans woman.

It was a good interview. Afterwards I told my boss: "When I say you need another me, I didn't mean literally"!

The final decision isn't mine to make; but part of me really hopes that she gets the job. I see a lot of my younger self in her (outside of the obvious parallels); and I would love to be able to mentor a neophyte developer, in much the same way that I was tutored by my friend and colleague.

My spouse is now a fully-fledged Necron Phaeron; and I could not be prouder of them!

(Seriously, though; it’s been a real pleasure, watching them pick up new techniques and sharpen their brush skills at warp speed. I can’t wait to see what they do next!)

Started my journey into Warhammer painting after getting a kit for Christmas. I thought i'd show off a few of the figures I've painted.

(please be nice, I'm so new to miniature painting)

I love these lil Necron dudes. I'm told using all metallic paint was the equivalent of learning to swim in the deep end. 🤷 I'm also hearing using a cold palette is unusual, too. 🫠 Maybe I'm doing it wrong?

01:38 AM

I should be unconscious right now, but I can’t sleep. I put the distractions aside, and lay down, and close my eyes... That’s when my thoughts catch up with me. You would think that at a certain point, the human body would simply run out of tears to cry; but if there’s a limit, I haven’t hit it yet this evening.

There are almost certainly connections between the different ideas, images, and recollections currently vying for attention inside of my head. I’m not sure I’m in the right frame of mind however to go mining for insight. Perhaps later.

On Monday, I have my MRI. As tests go, it’s fairly mundane; the most prevalent complaint is that you are required to stay still for a long time inside of a loud, clunky machine.

The MRI is to be conducted both with and without contrast. This means they will need to insert an IV catheter at some point, and inject a special fluid that the scanner can detect.

I’ve had my blood drawn plenty of times. I had an IV last time I was in the ER. (It was certainly annoying; but no more painful than the aforementioned blood draws.) However, my mind continues to gravitate towards - and get stuck on - this step.

I think perhaps it’s because I’m coming to realize that what rattles me most is the perception that I am no longer in control of a medical situation. The more steps required in a given appointment, the more likely the providers will have an efficient operation going, the more likely they are to maintain a pace faster than I am comfortable with.

Last week I had my nerve conduction study / electromyograph performed.

The nerve conduction study was first. I had a very nice technician; a young man named William. He listened to me earnestly when I explained my anxiousness; and did exactly what I asked: took his time, explained everything, and was honest with me about any discomfort I might experience.

Prior to the test, I had been instructed to wear clothing that would leave my arms and legs easily accessible (e.g. t-shirt and shorts, weather permitting). I settled for a sleeveless shirt and skirt that could easily be hiked up as necessary.

Apparently I chose poorly, as William provided a blanket which which I could cover up and prevent my thighs from flashing immodestly. We actually had a really nice conversation about it; where he explained that this was de facto policy for female patients, and I noted that I wasn’t opposed, merely surprised... Because my experience to date had, of course, been so different.

The test primarily consisted of William applying electrical shocks in various places; and measuring the corresponding signals reaching the ends of my extremities. He described this process as “More annoying than painful”, and that’s an assessment that (barring a few full-power shocks) I agreed with.

(To his credit, William had himself been shocked many times as part of his training; and was both sympathetic and informative as a result.)

After an hour of this, William subbed out and the neurologist subbed in; tasked with performing the electromyograph.

At the end of my ER visit, I was referred to the Neurology department; and forewarned that they would most likely want to order this test and that they were sorry it was so uncomfortable. I had similar conversations with my own provider, and the nurse practitioner I saw at Neurology.

The entire time I was thinking to myself: “How bad could it be”? The information I could find online explained that the test was conducted by inserting a needle into various muscles; although not particularly fun, this was no worse than my usual intramuscular injection regimen. Likewise, I undergo electrolysis every two weeks - surely that was the high bar for outpatient-induced pain?

Ah, well.

The neurologist very kindly ensured that I was prepared and had forewarning, and then inserted the needle in the muscle between my thumb and forefinger. I determined later that the needle was conical in design; which made for a less traumatic wound, but also perhaps more discomfort on insertion. Regardless, it was bearable.

I was not prepared for the next step: the neurologist had to move the needle about; not unlike swinging a television antenna around the room in search of better reception. This had me gritting my teeth. On top of that, I then had to flex the very muscle the needle was in; to take more readings.

This process took what felt like a couple of minutes; and once done, he proceeded to measure a muscle in my forearm, and then my bicep. After that it was the front of my shin, the calf muscle, and my upper thigh.

Again, he was very concerned with my well-being; but also rightly discerned that I was more interested in getting the test over than taking a break - so we powered through. Thankfully, as no issues were found on the left side, it was not necessary to proceed to the right.

I burst into tears as soon as I was outside. I can recall only one other time when a medical provider induced such pain that I was white-knuckling the surface of the exam table: after I inadvertently cut my finger open as a young teen; and the attending doctor had to examine the wound (and by extension, manipulate it while his assistants sprayed saline and whoever knows what else in there).

I didn’t think it affected me that badly; but I had to do my shot yesterday, and it was so hard. My hands were trembling, and on my first attempt, the needle barely even pierced the surface of the skin - I was that afraid of how much it could hurt.

Tomorrow I see my therapist. Our last appointment was, unfortunately, cancelled; so it’s been a while. We’ve been working on all the pent-up misery associated with my pre-immigration medical. That’s another subject swirling around in my head; and likely the root of a good portion of what I’m dealing with at present.

I was railroaded; moved through a medical assembly line like a non-person. Every time I feel as if there’s even a slight possibility that might be happening again, it all starts to come back - fear; the belief that I can no longer protect myself; that I am a target of contempt.

That brings me full circle; back to my upcoming MRI. There are several possible outcomes to this test: the best outcome, of course, would be that nothing of note is found. (This would suggest that the majority of my symptoms to date were caused by inflammation of my neural and nervous tissue; and as the inflammation naturally abides, so too will the symptoms.)

Another possibility is that I might have suffered a rare complication in which one’s own immune system attacks the nervous system. This is slightly more concerning, as one of the defining characteristics is permanent lesions of the white matter of the brain.

There is a third and final possibility: that the virus triggered a minor stroke. Such a thing would be unusual for a person of my age; as with so many other rare phenomena however, COVID has demonstrated exceptionally rare complications are surprisingly common once you are dealing with a virus that thinks little of the blood-brain barrier.

As you can imagine, two of the outcomes are terrifying in terms of their lifelong implications.

I’ll have my answer after Monday. For now, I’ll go back to ruing the godforsaken system of wealth transfer this country mockingly refers to as ‘health insurance’; knowing that I could have most likely had my results in hand much sooner if it wasn’t so absolutely vital to consult a third party on whether or not it was actually medically necessary to treat me.

02:35 AM.

Time to try again.