never-ending

I’d like to believe that there’s a part of every single person that believes inherently that they are destined to do great things.

I mean, if we don’t all believe that, what are we doing?  Are we really content with just being mediocre?  Being middle of the road?

I don’t think that’s a thing.

And yet, in the months I’ve been home, I’ve come to see my restrictions so clearly it can be frightening.  I’m tired — all the time.  Not sometimes, or in the afternoon, or after a long day.  All the time.  When I’m rested, when I’ve eaten well, when I’ve slept through the night (it does happen!).  I’m always tired.  Sometimes it’s mild — like, whoops, I went to bed too late, but I can power through this day.  Sometimes it’s so all-consuming I’m unsure whether my brain will ever function normally again.  When I’m really tired, I forget things.  A lot of things.  It feels like I’m drunk, or perhaps drugged … like the world is faraway, and I’m seeing it all through water.  I play a game every morning, just to test myself.  I always try to remember what movie was on when I fell asleep.  Sometimes it’s easy.  I remember right away.  Sometimes I have to ask John.  Sometimes I just can’t remember, and I get so frustrated.

Today I wondered if I would ever be able to do anything ever again, the fatigue was so shattering.

And yet, I have to believe that if it’s something I care about, something I feel passionately about, I’ll get it done, I’ll figure it out.

There are a million things I want to do in my life.  And I certainly don’t want MS to be the obstacle preventing me.  And as I lay in bed after my nap today, I also knew deep down that I don’t want to be mediocre.  I don’t want to come and go through this life and not leave a mark.

I think I’m finally ready to figure out my next phase, my next step, the next chapter of my life.  If I can stay awake long enough! 🙂

 

 

gratitude

Do you know who you are?

I mean, really for real, deep in your gut, know yourself?

Do any of us?

Aren’t we all a work in progress, an exercise in trying and failing and trying again?

On Monday an old co-worker called.  I think of him more as a pseudo brother ~ we had one of those relationships that ebbed and flowed and sometimes there were tears (mine, not his.  And quite a long time ago).  And a lot of time there was laughter.  We enthused over Eminem years after his Marshall Mathers LP dominated my life.  We were the blind leading the blind for many years, learning as we went, always being on call.  He let me be me, and I think I did the same. We had an unspoken understanding of ‘how things were’ and we both worked hard to make everything perfect.  We both got tired.

I’ve been spending this year trying to figure out who I am, what I want — what direction to go.  Every few weeks I panic and send out a million resumes to jobs I don’t want (haha!  They usually don’t want me, either!).  I would get so tired I’d spend an entire day trying to make it to bedtime … only to get up every two hours throughout the night.  I got frustrated, discouraged, afraid.  And I was always exhausted.  A little forlorn.

My conversation on Monday began to change all that.  I remembered my passion for things, my determination.  I remembered what I have to offer.

And for that, for that feeling of re-ignition, I am profoundly grateful.  November is always the month when we post daily gratitudes (an exercise that I find invades all aspects of life, and somehow spreads sunshine on the darkest of days).  But to feel that spark again, that motivation to act, to clear the cobwebs and once again move with purpose — there are no proper words of thankfulness.

There is only the warm glow of knowledge — of friendships forged in trenches, of industries full of passion and wonder, of unbridled love for food, and beverage and hospitality.  Feelings that I thought died long, long ago.  I am so grateful for new beginnings, for true friends, for second chances and for untapped opportunities.

hashtag me, too

When I saw the first #metoo post in my FB feed, my stomach flip-flopped and I felt a lump in my throat.  I was overwhelmed with emotion.  Let’s be honest ladies — we don’t talk about it.  We never have.

Quite awhile ago, I told my husband about something that happened to me in college.  I circled around the issue, I argued for and against.  I justified, made excuses, twisted it up so much in my mind that I wasn’t sure exactly what had happened anymore.  I knew how I felt then, I know how I feel every time I think about it now.  Confused, scared, gray.  But could I tell you the details?  Not all these years later.  I know that when it happened, and I talked about it the next day … or maybe it was several days … the reaction wasn’t good.  It wasn’t accepting or understanding or sympathetic.  It was distant with the acrid underlying of suspicion.  If I hadn’t known before then — and I probably had — we just don’t talk about it.  We soldier on.  We endure.

I’m not a stupid girl.  I have never knowingly put myself in silly situations.  I’m quite certain I’ve never “asked for it.”  I’m strong and I’m smart and it has still happened to me.  More than once. In more than one environment. Being smart or strong doesn’t make you immune.

Several years ago something happened at work.  It made me feel very uncomfortable.  Very vulnerable.  Kinda gross & icky.  The reactions from co-workers were the same as the reactions had been in college.  Even the sympathetic eyes were guarded, silent.  No need to be drawn in.  Just move on, forget about it.  For God’s sake, stop talking about it.

My mother, on the other hand, was appalled.  She immediately called for my resignation.  My father was quiet.  He didn’t say much of anything.  Maybe he didn’t know what to say. Maybe it’s all so ingrained in us that this is what happens.  This is what we must overcome.

I didn’t quit.  I stayed.  But I never forgot.

The thing is, the #metoo movement means more than just violent rape at a college fraternity party.  It means more than stereotypical ideas of sexual harassment and assault.  It is the idea of bringing attention to a systematic thought pattern in our society.  That not only is the habitual act of sexual harassment wrong, but also wrong is the idea of shaming those who choose to talk about it.  Those who would like to make a difference.

As a woman who has experienced a myriad of sexual harassment and discrimination, I have stayed silent because I felt powerless.  Who would believe me?  Would it be worth the inevitable pain and suffering of bringing things to light?

I’m okay.  I have soldiered on and endured.  In many ways, i have forgotten.  But that doesn’t make it alright.  It doesn’t make it acceptable and forgiven.  It is a tough, painful thing to contemplate, to consider wading through to the other side.

In the end, we are all human.  We should all treat others as we would like to be treated.  (Although this calls into question if all people want to be treated as we ourselves would like to be treated ….).  We should treat others with decency and respect.  With thoughtfulness and kindness.  Unfortunately, we do not currently have a leader who demonstrates these things.  That makes it challenging.  It makes the going feel tougher than it should.

I stand in solidarity with all the women, all the humans, who posted #metoo.  I stand with you in strength and in understanding and with love and compassion.  I know how hard it is to admit these things that we have swept away, that we have hidden under layers of defenses and justifications.  I stand and I hold my head high.  Because even though it’s hard to comprehend sometimes, I didn’t do anything wrong.  And neither did the other women who have suffered in silence.

sometimes

Sometimes it’s virtually impossible to be positive.

Despite this blog and my obsession with Instagram ([at]simplygwyn if you are curious) I’m a pretty private person.  I don’t relish in other people’s misfortune (or fortune) and I don’t always like to share my own.  Have I had tough times?  Oh, yes. Have I had amazing triumphs?  Yes, it could be said.  Do I tend to share those specifics either here or via my social media identity?  Usually not.

Today has been a brutal day.  For many reasons.  MS, obviously.  I finally slept through the night but I woke up exhausted and without motivation to do anything.  Feeling that way is frustrating, sometimes as though I’m watching myself through a thick pane of glass, all the details blurry and no way to communicate to myself.  It’s hard for others to understand — there’s nothing physical that signals my distress, my struggles.  I look fine, so I should be fine.  I discriminate against myself using that logic all the time.

When you start a day feeling listless and then one thing after another pummels you — it’s very hard to rally.  I rode my bike — something that helps sometimes, but doesn’t always.  I did one of my longest rides ever — 32.1 miles in 90 minutes.  Yay!  Go me …. I think.

John got home close to 4pm and brought in the mail.  Yup, I’d been such a slug all day, I hadn’t picked up the mail on Lucy and my afternoon walk.  It happens folks, that’s the reality of my life.  In the mail was a delightful form letter from our new insurance advising me that after review, my MS medication would not be covered and all future costs would be 100% our responsibility.

Whomp.  Whoosh.  Air sucked out of my lungs, tears stinging my eyes.  And this was at the end of an already brutal day.

I’ve been on five drug therapies for MS.  I’ve read all kinds of blogs and posts about controlling MS without drugs.  I drink green smoothies religiously.  I can be enormously fussy about the food I eat.  I work hard every day but I cannot NOT be on medication.  Before Tysabri I had Lydia (my cane, for those who weren’t reading my blog in 2014).  I could barely walk up stairs.  My disease progression was aggressive and scary and bad.  And now, here I am.  Blue Cross Blue Shield of Michigan has decided that they won’t cover the only medication that has ever worked for me.  Somehow, a huge insurance company now controls my life.  Literally, my life.

Today, it must be said, has not been a good day.

 

doctor daze

Now that I’m in my third year of Tysabri I get to see Dr. M four times a year — every three months.  Plus side, only two of those visits require MRI scans.  Minus side — it’s four times a year I feel outside of myself, unable to articulate myself, overwhelmed by fear.

Yesterday, as John and I made our way back to the car, hot tears stung my eyes and I clutched my paperwork tightly in clammy hands.  I’d felt five years old in that office.  I’d felt out of my depth, unsure, wrong.  It’s a terrible way to feel.

I go to see Dr. M armed with a list of queries typed haphazardly in my phone.  I don’t know why I even bother.  The answers are always the same.  It could be MS.  It could be something else.  It could just be aging.  It could be something different entirely.

Do doctors want us to spend our lives in and out of waiting rooms, forever chasing answers to unanswerable questions?  Here’s a referral to a urologist, one for a psychiatrist, another for a gastroenterologist; here’s one for a DIFFERENT neurologist, because that’s not in my realm of practice.  Perhaps also a cardiologist?

Clearly, all us sick people have copious amounts of time and energy at our disposal to spend time on the phone (making appointments, haggling with insurance, etc etc), driving to and from all the appointments, following up on treatments and recommendations.  It’s a true joy to be told the same thing over and over.

They just can’t be sure.  It might be this, it could be that.  Have you seen so-and-so yet?

And it’s not just me.  It’s my mother, my father-in-law … so many other people struggling for answers, for a direction.

As we approached 95 from 76 I turned to John.  “I think we need to make doctor days sushi days.  Can we do that?”  He smiled and nodded.

consequences

I’ve been thinking a  lot recently about consequences.

A little bit about how as we get older, we are much more aware (wary?) of the consequences of our actions.  Some thoughts about how when we were young other things informed our decisions – fun, experience, etc.

Sometimes consequences have to be dealt with even if we wouldn’t have chosen the action.  I deal with the ‘consequences’ of MS every day, and I have to admit, I mostly wish I didn’t.  But here’s the thing — some consequences of this disease have been good.  I’m infinitely healthier than I might otherwise have been.  I get more sleep, I eat better food, I work out a.lot more than I ever might have. I drink a ton of water every day.  None of that is bad.

But I also have to think about everything.  If I do something physical, what are the risks of hurting myself?  If I hurt myself, how long will it take this broken down body of mine to heal? I recently went to Hilton Head for a few days with  my parents.  We drove down (it’s a long ride in the car, let me tell you!) and I flew home.  I tried as hard as I could to maintain normalcy for this finicky body but despite my best efforts, I spent about 36 hours after getting home trying to recover.  From what, you ask.

Excellent question.

From life.  From the dehydration I accidentally caused myself by not keeping up with my water drinking.  From the strange schedule that my body couldn’t find the rhythm to.  From fatigue caused by not sleeping in my own bed, in my own sheets, with my ceiling fan and window.

I know, this all sounds ridiculous.  I need to buck up, stop being such a fuss pot.

I one thousand million trillion percent agree.

Only, it doesn’t work like that for me anymore.

I quit my job at the beginning of the year.  For many reasons.  Being wildly unhappy was the final catalyst, something I’d pushed down for years (I understood the consequence of giving up my salary and wasn’t ready to take the leap for a long, loooonnng time.  That maturity and awareness had not informed my earlier years of job hopping because I didn’t think about the financial consequences quite as much in my early to mid twenties and before MS).

Anyway, I quit my job.  As the months have passed, I’ve come back to myself in so many ways.  I’ve remembered who I was before I was so completely miserable.  And I have also become more aware of how everything — and I mean everything — is affected by my disease.

Which brings me back to consequences.  Every action I take has a consequence.  In some ways, our lives are the result of the consequences of our actions.  Every time I decide to stray from my routine, my body manifests the consequences.  I’m not one of those people who can pop an Advil or two, drink a tall glass of water, and not feel the effects of a day at a bar the next morning.  I feel all of the effects.  Pain in my body from sitting on a bar stool, pain in my abdomen from eating too much processed food, pain in my head from having one too many glasses of wine (despite also drinking a water with each one).  And worst of all, the pain of unrelenting fatigue.

Here’s the thing, too.  Sometimes, adrenaline keeps me going for a few days.  When I was in Hilton Head, i didn’t feel bad.  I felt a little sleep deprived but nothing horrible.  It wasn’t until I got home that my body succumbed to all that ailed it.  When I was working, I pushed through.  I knew my responsibilities and I got things done.  I didn’t really feel the fatigue or the emotional toll it had all been taking until it was over, and my body collapsed from the sustained effort to keep going.

It’s a delicate balance, the art of considering the consequences and choosing what to do and what to pass on.  I know that people must look at me sometimes and wonder what my problem is.  “But she looks so healthy!  She looks better than she used to look!”  

Yup.  But I don’t feel better than I used to feel.  I am not, in actual fact, healthy.  I mean, relatively, I am.  But I still have a disease eating away at my brain and spinal cord.  I still have to journey to the hospital every twenty-eight days to be infused with powerful medication.  I still feel the slow deterioration of my abilities.  I am still so, so, unbelievably tired.

So yeah.  I’ve been thinking a lot about consequences.  How to minimize them.  How to choose wisely.  And I’m still so, so tired.

rainy monday

I love rainy days.  Especially if there is little to no wind, and it’s not too cold.  Today dawned misty and gray, the rain coming straight down and pattering softly on the deck, the roof and the driveway.  Lucy looked up forlornly on our only walk, unhappy to be outside in the wet.

But I felt motivated today.  We spent the weekend in Mansfield (three out of the last four weekends is absolutely a record!) and despite having slept in a tent next to a luggable loo far too many times recently, I didn’t wake up in any pain.  I’d slept well (and through the night, which anyone with M.S. can tell you is a small miracle).  I’d planned on cleaning the house today (something I try to do on Mondays, so it’s done for the rest of the week) but thought better of it when I realized the rain wasn’t going to stop any time soon.

Instead I braved Wegmans at 8.30am before the crowds and then sat down in my office, determined to make a dent in the piles of paperwork that have (seemingly) grown exponentially in the past few weeks.  I had my first successful R + F interaction, signed up for an HR certification course, balanced our checkbooks and finally (after procrastination) rode over 21 miles on my bike.

Tonight, John and I will have some filet, fresh corn and zucchini for dinner (I love when we have real, well-balanced meals, and truly appreciate how much thought and time goes into creating them night after night).  I’ll probably fall asleep curled up beside him on our couch, watching sitcoms while he scrolls through his phone.  It will be blissful, because life has been so unexpected of late, and this will be a return to normalcy (before he heads to NYC tomorrow on business).

That’s the comfort of a gray Monday.  The release of pressure to be outside. The silence and stillness. The freedom to quietly tap away at keyboards, and get the things that need to be done finished.  The knowledge that cuddling up under a soft blanket in sweatpants is completely acceptable.

With a nice glass of red, of course!  🙂

a day in the life

I’ve had a rough few months.

Not in a bad way.  In a good way.  But the past few months have not been easy.  I’ve felt really lost a lot of the time.  I keep coming to this blog wondering what I’m doing.  What do I have to say?

What do I have to say.

I started this blog about six years ago, with the idea of learning to cook and sharing the amazing recipes I was sure I would be making.  And along the way, I got MS.  Which really changes the shape of a person’s life.  About a year and a half ago, I started to work out in earnest.  To be fair, I don’t know if I had a specific reason.  Just the idea that I knew I should be working out, and we’d spent some cash on a stationary bike.

Earlier this year, I though to myself, I should make this blog about MS.  But lemme tell you something — that is both challenging and slightly depressing.  MS is not fun.  It challenges a person every day in every way.  But it also makes you look at things from a completely different perspective.

Would I be biking nearly 170 miles a week if it weren’t for MS?  Maybe.  But probably not.

Would I have an addiction to green smoothies?  Um… I’m going to guess no.

Would I constantly be trying to push the boundaries of my dietary restrictions in the best possible way, and make things that normally sound dismal delicious?  Absolutely not.  I mean, I think we all start to get healthier as we age — recovery isn’t as quick, and we learn that taking care of this body we were given really does help lead a more fulfilling life.  But I think the extremities of the consequences I deal with really helped clarify my life.

I really don’t like absolutes, so when I try something new, I think of it in an 80/20 capacity.  I’ll be good 80% of the time, and take my chances 20% of the time.  Over the past few years, I’ve found this approach works best for me.  I think everyone responds to boundaries differently — some of us might like the all or nothing approach.  But all that all or nothing accomplishes for me is a truly terrible attitude and massive resentment and unhappiness.  That isn’t to say that over time I haven’t found certain things are better at 100% (green smoothies are an example — a day without a smoothie means feeling much more lethargic and foggy, having lower energy and waking up in gripping stiffness and pain the next day — all of which I’m sure, sound amazing).  But across the whole spectrum, 80/20 has become my go-to.

And as I struggle each day to make the best decisions I can (I succeed sometimes, but I also fail … a lot) I thought maybe it might be something I could share here.

I have meds on Friday, which means I’m tired this week.  And the heat and humidity of July are not my friends.  When I woke up this morning, after about ten hours of sleep, my entire torso ached every time I inhaled.  My legs were unbelievably stiff, and my left knee hurt.  I mean, hurt.  Which I find so depressing, because it means I won’t have a good ride on my bike, if I ride my bike at all.  And that, in turn, means that my “Move” circle on my watch might not get completed.  Highly unsatisfactory.

I knew John had a long conference today (we are still adjusting to him working from home – finding routines and rhythm). I tried to make my bullet point list for today — things I wanted to accomplish.  I was going over to a barn near my house that does therapeutic riding with disabled children with my mother, but otherwise, nothing on the agenda.  I’d done some grocery shopping yesterday, so I figured I’d make something yummy.

I did a slight variation of a black bean & citrus salad that I first made years ago (from Iowa Girl Eats).  Let me tell you something ~ making a recipe when you are infinitely more comfortable in the kitchen is so much more fun than freaking out about measurements and ingredients every five seconds.  This recipe *could* be healthier (I used Israeli cous cous cooked in chicken bouillon instead of quinoa and water) but it’s still a pretty good one.  It’s definitely a recipe that makes me feel both healthy and happy.

What I used:

1 1/2 cups pink grapefruit segments

1 can black beans (rinsed)

1/4 cup chopped cilantro

2 ears of fresh corn (cut off the cobb raw)

1/4 cup dried cranberries

1 cup dry Israeli Cous Cous

1 1/4 cup chicken bouillon

 

 

 

 

 

Dressing:

Juice of 2 limes

1/2 cup EVOO

2 tsp Cumin

Salt & Pepper to taste

 

 

 

 

 

Directions:

1.  Combine cous cous and bouillon in a medium saucepan.  Bring to a boil and then immediately reduce to a simmer.  Cover and allow cous cous to absorb liquid — about six- eight minutes.  Keep an eye on it and stir occasionally so the cous cous doesn’t stick to the bottom of the pan.  Once the pearls are inflated, transfer to a  bowl and let cool to room temp.

2. Combine grapefruit, beans, corn, cilantro and cranberries in a medium to large mixing bowl.  I fold together with a spatula so that the grapefruit doesn’t break down too much.

3.  In a separate bowl, squeeze lime juice and combine with EVOO, cumin and salt and pepper.  Whisk together.

4.  When cous cous has cooled, combine with other ingredients, pour vinaigrette over and continue to mix until well combined.

5.  It’s delicious.  Trust me.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I’m heading down to the gym now ~ I’ll probably do some burpees and squats (depending  on my knee) and then about 20 miles on the bike (again, knee dependent).  I’m hoping to get back to a regular yoga practice soon — my muscles are feeling tight from all the cardio and strength work outs.  Hubs and I have sweet potato noodles to make for dinner tonight (Wegmans = the best).

I’m already on my third bottle of water, so if I focus, I could probably get four in today (which may help with the soreness and stiffness).

 

conundrums

Having MS.

It’s sort of like everything all the time, and nothing at all.

I don’t really know how to better describe it.  How it affects everything, and is always on my mind, but at the same time isn’t that important at all.

When I talk about my MS, I usually feel like it’s a throwaway comment ~ not that big a deal, just the norm.  But then, halfway through the words coming out of my mouth, I realize (usually from the changing facial expression of the person I’m talking to) that perhaps, my comments are a little more jarring to them.

I guess it’s like …. nope.  I can’t think of anything that it might be like.  It’s just … my baseline, my reality.  I don’t want sympathy.  I don’t want pity.  But I also don’t know how to exist without it anymore.  It’s such a huge part of my whole life.  It influences everything I do, everything I wear, every decision I make.  I am no longer myself without the MS.  I am MS, it’s become part of my framework.

I don’t bring it up on purpose … and what I mean by that is, it’s so much a part of every aspect of my life, I don’t know how to exist without acknowledging it.  Yes.  Maybe that’s it.

I guess my throwaway bio on Instagram and Twitter are the truest of true … I am an MS warrior — BUT, I’m so much more than that.  Sometimes maybe, it’s hard to remember that there’s so much more, when I lead with such a wham bang punch.

brian o’connor

During my last year of college I lived in a row of three houses filled with theatre majors.  It was a fun block and group of people.  I’m not in touch with many of them today (other than Facebook, but we’re the generation who grew up without Facebook, so a lot of us function without it … which means not a lot of online living).  But through the years, oddly enough, I have stayed in touch with  my next door neighbor and friend Matthew.  And to some extent, through Matthew, his brother Brennen.  Matthew is a successful actor in New York City and Brennen is a successful architect back in Pittsburgh (where they are from).

But when I think of Matthew and Brennen, the first thing I think about is Brennen’s Laser (dark blue, and always sitting in the common driveway, the hood popped up and Brennen’s upper torso leaning over the engine -for a purpose none of us were ever too interested in).

It’s hard, in a few words, to describe that year I lived on North Atherton surrounded by those boys, but I have memories for days.  Brennen and the Laser, playing video games (the only time in my life, and only for a few months before Brennen took our Playstation away, pointing out that we’d completely stopped doing anything else).  Writing music, listening to music, sitting and talking for hours at a time.  It was a magical year.

It was also the year that I was first exposed to “The Fast & the Furious.”  And, for reasons I still cannot pinpoint, I fell in love with it.

When John and I started dating, we watched the fourth movie on a bootleg internet site – the coming back of Vin Diesel and Brian O’Connor after the (in my opinion) blasphemy of ‘Tokyo Drift.’  We saw ‘Fast Five’ in the theatre on opening weekend.  And the sixth.

And then, like a shock wave, Paul Walker died.

I cannot explain why it affected me the way it did.  I was absolutely devastated.  I watched all my DVDs for days, watched  Brian O’Connor wearing his chucks and vans.  Smiled with tears in my eyes when he spoke.  Tweeted too many times with the hashtag “Remember the Buster.”   I wore chucks for a week leading up to the release of F&F 7, and was there for a matinée showing on its opening day.  I don’t think I paid very much attention to the movie ~ I was transfixed with watching Paul Walker on-screen.  And I still cry every time I see the end sequence of that movie.  Big, hot, emotional tears.

So when “The Fate of the Furious” was released, I felt a little torn about seeing it.  Hubs was hoping that with the departure of Brian O’Connor (Paul Walker’s character in the movies), I would move on from my “Fast and Furious” obsession.  We didn’t see it in the theatre.  I listened to, but stayed quiet, about all the reviews.  Was I ready to see a new F&F movie without Brian O’Connor?  I didn’t know.

But I pre-ordered it on iTunes because deep down, I couldn’t turn my back on this series of movies that have grown more and more absurd as their popularity has grown. I love them too much.   I still think about Paul Walker asking for his tuna sandwich, no crust and am magnetically drawn to the films.  So John and I sat down to watch it this week.

To me, there was a gaping hole where Brian O’Connor should have been.  But, I also considered that life goes on for all of us when we lose someone we love.  Life continues, and the hole is there and the memories are there and the emptiness drums in the background, the heartbeat of the person we’ve lost.

It was better than I thought it would be.  It felt like there was a story again – something that I’d felt was missing from the sixth and seventh installments.  My breath caught in my throat when Roman (Tyrese Gibson) and Letty (Michelle Rodriguez) mentioned Brian in the middle of the movie.  And I cried at the end, knowing but waiting for confirmation of what I’d guessed.

I don’t know why I love the movies.  Life, maybe?  Good memories?  And I certainly can’t explain why I was so ripped apart by an actor’s death — a person I didn’t even know.  And yet, I was.  I remain staunchly loyal to Brian O’Connor.  The Buster.  Tuna, no Crust.

And I’ll keep watching the Fast & Furious movies until they stop being made.  Because I can’t give up now.