Paula Deen Bought Me Freaking Drinks, Yawll Bitches!

I hope you packed THREE lunches.

Another backdated post. My intentions are good, really, but I’m still exhausted from BlogHer…emotionally, socially, physically. Have YET to read a BlogHer recap (save 1 or 2), have YET to gather the business cards and start visiting blogs, have YET to upload my photos to Flickr, have YET to recover from the Post BlogHer Blues (aka PBB).

I’ll likely write a handful more posts about BlogHer, but I thought I’d start with my favorite moments of BlogHer 2009. Don’t anyone get their panties in a twist if you’re not mentioned here. Everyone’s top moments are different and I enjoyed the ever-loving fuck out of HUNDREDS of you.

For me, though, most of my favorite moments each year are the intimate conversations. Not the swag stampedes where women were ripping their hair out for sex toys. Not the panels. Not the claustrophobic cheeseburger parties.

As Elisa said on stage during the conference, it really IS about the people.

Naturally, these items are not in any particular order. Well, they ARE, but a highly scientific algorithm was used, involving quadratic equations, the average diameter of all the Spanx peeholes at BlogHer, the number of catty conversations held during the conference, then divided by the quantity of dirty looks I got in the Sheraton. Barely worth mentioning.

My Top 10 Favorite Moments From BlogHer 2009

1. Naked Jen.

Before Thursday night, I swear I’d never seen a naked woman at BlogHer. No longer true. Thursday night, this chick I didn’t even know (and HOW did I not know her?) came down the escalator totally fucking naked. Then she wandered through the Room 704 party and was gone in the blink of an eye. The whole thing maybe lasted 90 seconds, tops. Thank GOD I was there to see it firsthand. I guess all those times of me not shouting “FUCK OFF!” finally paid off.

I’ve done some crazy-ass shit on my blog and shown my guggenheimer more than once. But I don’t have balls NEARLY the size of Naked Jen. She. Fucking. Rocks.

2. The Vaginally-Challenged Men Blogger Panel.

I wrote about this panel in my Monday post. But I honestly can’t think of three better men to speak on my behalf at BlogHer. They did me proud and they were a huge hit with the chicks. Britt did a marvelous job as moderator, though she was really more of a TV talk show hostess. She kept everything on track like a pro, but I know Britt pretty well and I spotted the I’m-Gonna-Slap-The-Beard-Off-Avitable’s-Face Look at least 34 times.

Laughs, tears, and everything in between. The Q & A portion of the show was excellent, too, with lots of great questions from the audience.

The only bad part of it was that Backpacking Dad stood in the back the whole time, looking all J. Crew Model and shit. Honestly, it isn’t fucking fair that he has looks, brains, AND amazing writing skills. Me, I’m just stuck with the looks. *cough*

3. Power Blogging Couples – Schmutzie and Palinode – Churchpunkmom and Onlyaman.

Keep in mind that I haven’t read more than a handful of blogs since I started working last August, not even those of my closest friends. That’s because I totally suck and can’t seem to manage my time.

But I HAVE been on Twitter a shitload; in fact, it’s been my only real social networking outlet for a year. I’ve followed and interacted with Palinode, Churchpunkmom, and Onlyaman for a while now. Schmutize, well, she’s so freaking huge on the Internet that of COURSE I’ve heard of her, but I had no idea she was married to Palinode. And I had no idea that Onlyaman is married to Churchpunkmom, either.

Without hyperbole, I tell you that these four people are some of the best people I’ve ever met. Hilarious, smart, and genuinely good folk. And I’m fucking thrilled that they saw fit to allow me to hang with them. Hanging in the lobby with Churchpunkmom and Onlyaman, lunch with Schmutzie and Palinode…awesome.

I’m just warning the four of them right now. I’m gluing my ass to yours in very short order. Once I finish my post-BlogHer schmoozing/publicity fest, of course. So you’re probably safe for a couple of weeks.

4. Crystal from Boobs, Injuries, and Dr. Pepper and Sheila from Charm School Reject.

Sheila I’ve known for nearly a year now, having met her at Avitable’s infamous Halloween party last year. We also hung out at Confab, another intimate blogger gettogether in Kentucky last month. She makes me laugh. She’s incredible. And she’s only 24, which makes me feel a little pervy when I stare at her tits, since my daughters are only 2 years younger. Still, I’m very thankful she was at BlogHer, and am thankful to my Twitter followers, who helped get her a Lobbycon ticket within 90 minutes of me tweeting about it.

Now Crystal…I’ve been reading Boobs, Injuries, and Dr. Pepper for a few years now (save the past 365 days). She has repeatedly made me laugh until brain fluid is actually pouring from my eyes. But I had no idea what she looked like. Hell, I didn’t recognize half the people I hang with on Twitter last weekend, let alone Crystal, who is a bitch and doesn’t spend any time on Twitter at all.

So when at the cocktail party bar Friday night, while waiting on my drink, I saw Crystal standing at the end of the bar by herself and I said hi. She smiled and said hi back, and then the BlogHer Badge Ritual began, where you exchange names and then look down at the girl’s tits to read her blog name on her badge. Because it’s amazing how many people’s NAMES you don’t know, even if you read their blogs. I can’t count how many times I said, “What’s your blog?” in Chicago.

So I see “Crystal” on her badge, then I look underneath it for her blog name. “Boobs, Injuries, and Dr. Pepper.” And -

“OH MY GOD! I *LOVE* YOU!” and before she knew what was happening, I was wrapping my arms around her and squeezing her so hard her eyes may have popped out of their sockets just a little bit. It’s okay, I picked them up off her cheek and popped them back in.

This phenomenon, by the way? Happens roughly 38,000 times during BlogHer. Every 30 seconds or so you hear women squeeing at such high pitches all the glasses in the bar shatter. And I love it.

Off and on all weekend, it was Sheila and Crystal and I, the 3 Bitcheteers. Whenever I was feeling anxious (and that was a lot), I found solace with those two ladies. Both down-to-earth funny-as-fuck women and I love them dearly.

Crystal, you too, shall be stalked by me in the very near future. I have your number, and I intend to use it. Just ask Sheila. You’ll be sick of me in no time.

5. Karaoke Friday Night.

There was karaoke. Anyone who knows me knows that if there is karaoke, my ass is gonna be on the microphone. I went to a table with one of the songlist books on it, waiting patiently for everyone to look through it, and was asked by the charming Erica of Butterfly Kisses (who I didn’t know) if I’d sing a duet with her.

“But you don’t even know me,” I said.

“You sing, right?”

“I’ve been known to once or twice.” (I’m trying for Understatement of the Year.)

“So, will you sing with me?”

Who am I to refuse a beautiful woman ANYTHING? “Of course I will.”

So Erica put us in for “Summer Nights” from Grease, which I’ve hardly EVER heard at karaoke. *cough*cough* And then I put my song in, too.

Well, long story still-long-but-relatively-shorter, the karaoke dude (who had the BEST FREAKING MULLET I HAVE EVER WITNESSED) told me that he probably wouldn’t be able to get to either Erica’s and my duet, OR my solo song. He was supposed to shut down at 8:30pm.

And I couldn’t have that, so I slipped him a $20 and he amazingly found space for both songs. Yeah, that’s how I roll, bitches.

I’ve sung a lot of duets with girls I don’t know over the years…I used to do karaoke as a side job, actually, so it was part of the gig. You never know if you’re going to get someone who sings so badly it makes your ears bleed, or if they’re mediocre singers, or if they’re so good you get goosebumps.

Erica freaking rocked. And I say “freaking” only because I’ve since learned that she’s a Christian conservative blogger and now that I know that I won’t swear around her. (Even though I’m cursing up a storm throughout the rest of this post, I won’t do it while talking about her. Again, that’s how I roll, female dogs.)

Seriously, the girl can sing. We had fun, with lots of audience members singing along on the dance floor.

Then, Mullet Man says, “Karl, stay on the stage.” I was anxious, naturally, being surrounded by hundreds and hundreds of people I didn’t know. But karaoke is kinda therapeutic for me. Somehow, when I get behind a mic, I feel at ease. And I found the perfect song to sing in front of tons of women.

Joe Cocker’s “You Can Leave Your Hat On” from the 9-1/2 Weeks soundtrack.

I requested lots of ladies on the dance-floor and I got it. And when I belted out the first line in my best gravelly Cocker voice, there was cheering. Suddenly, I was in heaven. I don’t know what was up that night – maybe Erica rubbed some magical God vibes on me or something because I was ON LIKE BUDDOKHAN.

Without me even asking, these two hot babes come up on the stage (and I have no idea who they are, sorry) and danced behind me for the whole song. Freaking. Rocked.

I enjoyed the karaoke a great deal and I would love to thank Erica for graciously asking me to join her, as well as the dancing girls behind me, as well as all the folks on the dancefloor for making me feel incredibly cool for, like, six minutes. Truly, that was six more minutes than I expected.

NOTE: A few women came up to me after the song and said they got it on video. I have no idea who these gals are, but am desperately trying to find them so I can get copies or links. I want to SEE that sh – footage. Also, I’d love to know who the girls dancing behind me are, too, because they cracked me up and amazed me and I’m sure their blogs have got to be amazing, too.

So help a sister out and FIND ME THESE WOMEN. Pass the word. Thanks.

6. The Keynote With All the Fucking Crying. And I’m Back to Swearing.

By now, many of you have probably seen the videos from this keynote. There were 20 bloggers reading selected posts aloud to the entire conference. How on Earth Kleenex is not a fucking sponsor and there weren’t palettes of tissues on every table in the conference room is beyond me, but they damn well BETTER be a sponsor next year. Because I was in tears for an hour and a half.

It was an emotional roller coaster. First you have one girl making you laugh so hard you’re crying while she recounts the time she had sex with her husband while still wearing a tampon so it got shoved deep, deep into her vagingle. Then you have someone talking about the injustices she faces routinely while raising a special-needs child. Back and forth, up and down, always with the fucking crying.

It was EXHAUSTING, but incredible, like flipping back and forth repeatedly between “The Big Lebowski” and “Terms of Endearment.” Emotional whiplash. So many amazing writers, each of whom I am making voodoo dolls of and sticking pins in because I’m more than a little jealous that they’re all way more talented than I am.

Then, Grace Davis came up and read THIS POST. (WARNING: POSSIBLE TRIGGER ALERT) About being a Survivor. In the post, she runs down a list of (for lack of a better word) symptoms that Survivors often experience. And as she read through that list, saying “Forgive yourself” for this and “Forgive yourself” for that, I was mentally saying to myself, “I’ve done that, I’ve done that, I do that, I do that.” Every item on her list matched me nearly perfectly.

And I started to cry, as much as I could being surrounded by maybe 800 people,  like I haven’t in a while. It was triggering, and I don’t say that to upset Grace in any way. But fuck, she sucker punched me with that post. I didn’t know Grace when she walked onto that stage, but I sure as shit knew her intimately before she stepped off of it again.

In the middle of her reading, I was desperately wishing I had teleportation powers so I could beam myself instantly outside the front Sheraton entrance and start chain smoking and weeping. But I couldn’t leave, of course. I couldn’t be that rude prick in the sexist t-shirts who walks out in the middle of someone pouring out her heart. So I stayed.

Till she was done. And then I left as fast as I could and missed a number of other amazing bloggers that followed Grace. And I apologize to those ladies but will be watching those videos soon.

I was close to tears off and on all weekend after that reading. But I firmly believe God wanted me to be there at THAT moment. I’ll have more to say on that about 82 page scrolls down.

7. The Java Bar with Phil the Web Dude and 20 Amazing Women.

So Friday night, I’m standing outside in front of the hotel, smoking, and this guy walks up and says hi. We start talking a bit, he laughs at my t-shirt, asks why I’m there, and I point to my name badge.

“You’re here for BlogHer? In THAT shirt?”

“That’s how I roll,” I said.

“Oh, I’m here for BlogHer, too.” He sticks out his hand, we shake, and I ask what his blog name is.

So he says to me, “Actually, I’m here for Paula Deen.” Yes, THAT Paula Deen.

Turns out Phil is Paula Deen’s web guru and she was coming on Saturday. I had no idea, don’t think her name was on the agenda. I’m no cook, so the Food Network isn’t my typical viewing fare. But even *I* know who Paula Deen is, right? I mean, to my Mom, HGTV and the Food Network are like fucking crack. I have witnessed more hours of “Rate My Space,” “Property Virgins,” “Rachel Ray’s 30-Minute Meals,” and that barefoot Italian bitch than I can count.

So yeah, I’ve seen Paula’s show a few times and my arteries harden every time, just WATCHING the shit she’s cooking up.

So Phil is there to scope things out and schmooze a little before Paula arrives. I tell him it’s my 4th BlogHer and I know TONS of great women there and would be thrilled to introduce him to them. He’s peeing his pants with joy because I’m a DUDE at BlogHer, and so clearly the women I can hook him up with (not in THAT way, pervs) are incredibly cool. He thanks me, and I say, “My pleasure.” Because it is. I totally get off on connecting great people. It’s a sickness, really.

After 45 minutes chain-smoking in front of the hotel, I tell Phil I’m desperately under-lubricated and need a drink and he says he’s headed to the bar, too. So in we go to the Java Bar, I think there were 3 gals in tow with us at that point.

And Phil (thanks to Paula) buys us drinks for the next 3 hours, just hanging and shooting the shit. And he’s clearly enjoying these ladies because they rock, but keeps saying, “Karl, if you see any other friends, wave them over.” So I do…again…and again…and again. And by the end of the 3 hours, there were 20 of us all gathered in the bar, laughing and drinking and having supremely fine conversations. And he bought US ALL DRINKS THE WHOLE TIME, so suck it, bitches.

Phil rocks. So much so that I even called him a bitch when he told me about flying on a private jet. And we must have clicked both ways (it’s rare I click with a dude) because he laughed in response.

PS: I have watched Paula’s show a few times since returning from Chicago. I adore her. I can TELL she’s my kind of people…solid, down to earth, hysterical. And in honor of her, I will now start putting a stick of fucking butter in every Guinness I drink.

8. Conversation with Twentyfour, ElisaC, and Neilochka (My BlogHer Roommate).

So yeah, Neil (Citizen of the Month) was my roommate. We were the official BlogHer Male Power Duo. Or perhaps the official BlogHer Male Neurotic Duo, whatever. Semantics.

We didn’t see an awful lot of each other during the conference, except late at night in our hotel room (after we sent the hookers away exhausted). Good conversations at night and early in the morning, but for the record, Neil also happens to be THE SHITTIEST BLOGHER PARTNER ON EARTH.

I cannot count how many times I tried to locate Neil over the course of the weekend, only to be snubbed via every possible communication method possible – including smoke signals because don’t you dare think for a MINUTE I wasn’t trying that shit while chain-smoking. I’m talking Twitter (AND DM), texting, emailing, AND phone calls. The bitch was unfindable…to ME. To everyone else (meaning the attendees with vaginas) he was there lickety-split.

It’s Sunday, most everyone else has left Chicago already, but Neil totally (and brilliantly, I might add) followed my advice while we were planning our Chicago stay…ALWAYS STAY AN EXTRA DAY. You get to chill and hang in the city you’ve been in all weekend, but probably haven’t been able to VISIT. It’s the only way to go. And I won’t even charge you for that advice.

So I was working on my Boobs Pictures Photo Essay post and about 20 minutes from being done. Neil says he’s going to get some tea with TwentyFour, a dynamite lady, and that I should come down to hang with them in the cafe. Cool.

I finish the post, publish it, and it’s been twenty fucking minutes and I am finally going to get to hang with Neil, even if it took kicking the other 1,490 fuckers out of Chicago. But Neil is NOT in the cafe when I get down there. In fact, Neil is not ANYWHERE. He has opened an interdimensional wormhole and jumped his pajama-wearing-ass into it because he fucking hates me.

Text. @Neilochka. DM. Phone call. NOTHING.

I smoke a couple of cigarettes, berate him via voice mail, and then go back to the cafe, swearing on Twitter that if I don’t find the dude in the next 15 minutes, I’m totally going to our room and cleaning the toilet with his toothbrush (which, by the way, is pink and purple and has Dora the Explorer on it).

The cafe has a sign saying they’re closed, but “Join us in the Burger Bar.” Which is downstairs on the other end of the monstrous Sheraton. Could it be? I didn’t dare get my hopes up too much, but what if Neil is at the Burger Bar? I swear to God I’m gonna LoJack his ass (credit for that joke goes to someone at BlogHer whose identity I forget because I’m a dick like that).

And he and Twentyfour ARE there, sitting at a table outside! And the clouds parted, and there were cherubs singing and angels blowing Lynyrd Skynrd on trumpets…it was a beautiful moment.

And the next three hours were magical. Truly. At first, it was just Twentyfour and Neil and I, talking about BlogHer. And that was great enough. I LIVE for these long, intimate conversations.

But then Elisa wanders out and asks to sit with us. Another of my favorite people to hang with, who also happens to be one of the three founding ladies of BlogHer. We hang out every year for a little bit because she’s cool like that and always makes time to spend with me.

And we hung out there for hours, talking anything and everything from behind-the-scenes BlogHer stuff (nothing illicit, sorry, and even if there were I’m a vault and would never tell) to online dating to the freaking FTC. Amazing conversation, made only more lively by the fact that Neil and Twentyfour have never been to BlogHer before, so they got to share their newbie impressions and suggestions with Elisa, who listens to EVERYONE about such things. And many times, acts on those suggestions.

And Elisa, I’ll mention this again. Kleenex. Sponsor. Get on that shit. I mean, I’ve already got lip balm, glitter, and baby wipes in my BlogHer bag. If I have to start carrying Kleenex convenience packs, I may as well go under the knife and start wearing sexist t-shirts as a WOMAN next year, because the Testosterone Society is sure as shit going to repossess my dick.

9. Grace Davis.

So, Grace. *sigh* As I said, her reading messed me up but GOOD. I tweeted that very sentiment and, through the power of word-of-mouth AND people who saw me bawling like a baby outside the Sheraton Friday night while smoking 13 cigarettes at the same time, I got a tweet from her late Saturday night. And let me tell you, I was hanging in the Chi-Bar with a couple dozen good friends, having a great time, and just seeing Grace’s NAME in my Twitter client made me tear up.

Immediately walked outside for a smoke, reading the actual tweet along the way. And oh my fucking god she gave me her cell number and wants to get together in the morning and I am freaking out so much I’m typing run-on sentences!

So I wake up Sunday morning around 8:30, the longest sleep I’ve had yet in Chicago, and it’s because I don’t have to check out or go to the airport. (So, again, suck it, bitches.) I have a tweet from Grace again, saying she’s getting together for breakfast with a fellow Survivor and would I like to join them? Except that the tweet is about an hour old. Shit.

So I call her and she says something to the effect of, “Karl! It is so wonderful to talk with you!” and my lower lip is already kind of quivering because my estrogen levels are higher than Seth Rogan by this point (osmosis).

And I apologize for getting up so late (though 8:30am is freaking early as shit in my normal life) because I really want to meet her. So she offers to do coffee and wants me to meet her in the lobby in 25 minutes.

And I just Know. I’m. About. To. Cry.

AGAIN.

We meet and hug and I kiss her on the cheek (as I am wont to do) and she introduces me to NAKED FUCKING JEN (see #1 about 6.3 miles above), who I ALSO hug. Then, for nearly the next two hours, it’s just Grace and I sipping coffee out on the promenade, which, I believe, when translated from French means “fancy hotel talk for concrete sidewalk next to a river.”

She goes way above and beyond living up to her name. It’s like we’ve known each other for decades. We can finish each other’s sentences and shit, sharing stories, and I’m telling this woman I JUST MET things I’ve only told in my two years of intensive outpatient group therapy. (Four hours a day, five days a week, TWO YEARS.)

Those hours? Truthfully, without meaning to hurt anyone’s feelings, my favorite two hours in Chicago last weekend.

I love her. For reals, yo. She is the classiest.

And that’s how I met the sister I never knew I had.

SIDENOTE: I was telling friends that I was going to hang with Grace, and a few of them warned me that she probably wouldn’t like my shirts. They mentioned this in the same tone you might use if you were to say, “You probably shouldn’t stick your dick in that open light bulb socket.” Fortunately, it was Sunday and I don’t have a Sunday BlogHer shirt (yet) so I was wearing normal absurd shirts. Regardless, I showed her photos of my three shirts and she laughed her ass off. So there.

10. Coffee with a Bunch of Great Bloggers, Followed by Lunch with Schmutzie and Palinode and LizRiz, Followed by the Threadless T-Shirt Excursion with Liz.

Over the years I’ve gone to BlogHer, I finally have it down to (nearly) a science. I mean, the logistics, the hotel, staying the extra day, how to balance the sessions, how to balance the socializing when you’re being ripped in a million different directions for 60 hours straight. All that shit. I’ve got it. Hopefully, I passed some of that knowledge (and the tips) on to Neil.

I went to three sessions. The men blogger panel, a Geek Lab workshop on CSS, and Neil and Amy’s wonderful Storytelling session. I tried to go to a couple of others where my friends were on the panel, but was too late in getting there and I wasn’t going to stand in the back, where I could barely hear. So instead, I went down to the Hanes booth and had my feet massaged by the goddess known as Melissa.

And I figured out the most amazing system when it comes to socializing. First come, first serve. Yes, I went to the parties (how do you think I got that cheeseburger boob picture?). Yes, I made arrangements with some to meet at a certain time. But other than that? I went with the flow.

If I was walking from the conference hall to my room so I could store the 85 pounds of swag I was lugging around before gangrene set in, and someone stopped me and we started talking? Then I forgot about everyone else (unless I had to be somewhere. or pee.) and just stuck with that person, or those people. And if we wound up having an hour-long conversation, and I missed someone giving away free Gap jeans in Suite 2372, then so be it. (I DIDN’T miss the Gap jeans, but I’m just sayin’.)

Because it’s the intimacy, people. THAT. IS. THE. SHIT.

So it’s Sunday and there are 1,300 women all trying to check out at the same time. It was like Pan Moon Jom and shit, trust me. Almost worse than the fights over the free sex toys. So there’s a group of us, hanging in the lobby…Palindrome, Churchpunkmom, Onlyaman, Schmutzie, LizRiz, Nanny Goats in Panties, and more.

We go off to Starbucks for a coffee and chat, have a groovy time walking along the Chicago streets with the skyscrapers and the ginormous American Gothic statue, and it’s marvelous. And I think to myself, I think, “I’m hanging with Schmutzie. Are you FUCKING KIDDING me?”

I hugged and kissed Churchpunkmom and Onlyaman (who, by the way, dude? I did NOT appreciate the tongue!) goodbye, since they had to drive home and pick up their tribe of children. Then we were off to lunch at Volare (and it’s late so Google that shit yo own damnself). Just me, LizRiz, Schmutzie, and the only obstacle remaining between me and Schmutzie. Palinsomething.

Lunch was divine. Great Italian food, sublime conversation. We talked about things like how Canadian money is much funner than stupid States currency, which only comes in one damn color. And I did my usual Canadian joke, asking if they knew my friend Cindy, who lives in Halifax, because y’know everyone in Canada knows each other. Sometimes I kill me.

And then Schmutzie and Palinsomething had to leave because THEY were driving home, too, even though I distinctly sensed this vibe from Schmutzie that said Why couldn’t I have met YOU before this guy I’m stuck with now? And WE hugged and kissed goodbye, and another little piece of me died inside, and for fuck’s sake will someone get me a maxipad?

So it was just Liz and I, and she had a mission. To go to the Threadless T-Shirt Store. Liz and I hang every year at BlogHer. It’s the only time I get to see her, but we always go out of our way to make something happen. So I’m like, cool, whatever…UNTIL I discover that Threadless has t-shirts for men. I’ve seen countless links on Twitter from girls who are dying to have THAT shirt, or THAT shirt. Never knew they had ‘em for men.

Fuck yeah, it’s on like Donkey Kong!

Subway rides, long walks amongst astounding architecture, great conversation. At one point, Liz stopped to take some photos, and there’s one of those industrial-sized air vents right next to me, blowing hot air. I said, “Shit, that’s hot!” and Liz says, “What? I was just bending a little to pick up the bag.” I just kinda pointed to the vent behind me and then we both busted up laughing.

Threadless. Right. I want to live there.

Amazing shirts, I spent money I shouldn’t have spent because we’re talking about t-shirts here people, AND? They have this cool webcam at the registers – you take your picture, then it gets transmitted to the front display window onto monitors, with your face on top of a t-shirt. So YOU’RE the mannequin! Suddenly, Andrew McCarthy pops into mind. Huh. Weird.

Then we’re back to the subway station. It’s our final time together since she’s going to the airport, and has been lugging her baggage with her all this time (and dropping her fucking pasta bag on the sidewalk 392 times), and I’m going back to the Sheraton. We talk and laugh some more on the train. Finally get to the Grand stop, and I give her a hug and a kiss, she says not to sweat the whole tshirt controversy, and I say see you later.

Because I know I will. Next year.

So, um, yeah. It was pretty much like that.