digital janitor

Adjustment.

noreply@blogger.com (steve) — Fri, 15 Aug 2008 07:53:00 +0000

My world sometimes feels beyond my control. A sailboat sans rudder. Part of this feeling is from my recent return to single status, part from some big changes in my work life that have been leaving me unsure about my career direction. For as adventurous as I would like to believe I am, I still have intense cravings for routine and familiarity - I take comfort in my customary life.

All this change has me worried. I know that the odds are long, but I can't help but think about the possibility of failure in what I'm doing and where I'm going now. I'm my own worst enemy sometimes.

Luckily, my stronger feeling is excitement. Historically, change has been good to me, even when it comes in a crappy box. I've always managed to land on my feet, learn a little something, and end up a better person for the experience. I'm excited to see where this plotted course takes me, the things I learn and the people I meet.

As I type this, there is the sound of thunder outside. Thunder in LA is a very rare event - I could count the number of thunderstorms I've seen in 6+ years of living here without running out of fingers. I'm gonna consider the thunder my own little symbol right now. A bookmark.

Optimism feels pretty damn good.

The awesomeness of Polaroid

noreply@blogger.com (steve) — Mon, 11 Aug 2008 15:11:00 +0000

For those of you reading this blog who don't know Mary Hartney, she's a blogger friend of mine (although we've never met) who also works for the Baltimore Sun. She just wrote a great article on the demise of Polaroid film and the enthusiastic cult following that has sprung up in the last few years. Go read!

That earthquake - my fault.

noreply@blogger.com (steve) — Tue, 29 Jul 2008 19:27:00 +0000

Last night, I posted a little joke:

I'm fine with people hating on LA. Franky, I wish more people hated it and moved away. Maybe then the real estate values would drop down to where a normal Joe like myself could afford to buy a house. Probably not gonna happen without help from a major earthquake or two.

Which brings us to about 15 minutes ago:I have only one thing to say:
NOT BIG ENOUGH! We need at LEAST an 8.

Random thoughts about Los Angeles

noreply@blogger.com (steve) — Tue, 29 Jul 2008 04:42:00 +0000

I've lived in LA for six years now, which almost qualifies me as a native. LA is an incredible city - diverse, richer in culture and art than most people give it credit for, and Southern California weather is the cat's ass.

That said, I know plenty of people who hate LA. I've figured out that 90% of those people fit into one of three groups:
1. They have to commute 45 minutes each way to get to work. You're going to hate any city where you spend an hour and a half of your day stuck in traffic.
2. They're a true native and are burned out on it, or haven't lived anywhere else and don't know how good they have it.
3. They've never been to LA for more than a short visit, and they think LA is what it looks like on TV.

I'm fine with people hating on LA. Franky, I wish more people hated it and moved away. Maybe then the real estate values would drop down to where a normal Joe like myself could afford to buy a house. Probably not gonna happen without help from a major earthquake or two.

For as much as I love Los Angeles, I also don't see myself staying here forever. I do deeply dig this city, but there are also a bunch of other places I'd like to call home. New Zealand seems cool. Ireland, Australia, Switzerland, Germany, Japan... so many places that I'd not only like to visit, but seem like they'd be cool to live and work in.

I shouldn't bitch so much.

noreply@blogger.com (steve) — Thu, 24 Jul 2008 07:16:00 +0000

I seem to get a lot of blog mileage out of bitching about work. Back when I worked for Machinery, Inc., I didn't bitch enough. That place deserved my full wrath. But now that I'm back at my cool old job, I really don't have much room to complain. I've got a great boss, excellent cow-orkers, a flexible schedule, and free beer and gummi worms on Thursday afternoons in the summer. Hell, I even got a really nice raise on my birthday. We even have some great parties in the office from time to time, where stuff like this happens:What's not to love?

I think I figured out my problem; I need more of a challenge. I recently saw a blurb on TV where an expert claimed that adults who challenge themselves with new things like learning a new language have a lower incidence of dementia and Alzheimer's Disease. Exercise my brain at the same office where I can also feel free to pass out on the floor. Makes perfect sense to me.

Creative inspiration

noreply@blogger.com (steve) — Wed, 23 Jul 2008 07:28:00 +0000

For the last week or so, I've had this itch to do something creative. I can't seem to scratch the itch by writing, but I did hop on my bike and pedal around Santa Monica with my camera this evening.
It hasn't quite satisfied the itch, though - I feel like a lot of what I've been shooting lately is stuff I've shot before. Nothing new. I need to find something new to try, an idea that takes me in a new direction.I've been tempted to take a class on welding - I could see myself as one of those eccentric sculptors who welds giant piles of scrap metal into something hideous. I could use that as an excuse to surround myself with vast piles of junk. Wouldn't THAT be fun?

Tech support OCD

noreply@blogger.com (steve) — Sun, 20 Jul 2008 06:00:00 +0000

I was reading THIS, which reminded me of a bunch of little quirks and habits that I have when working with other people's computers.
- Messy desktops. If you've got a pile of files and folders all over your desktop, I have to restrain myself from cleaning up your mess. I don't understand how you can keep your shit straight when it's all over the place like that.
- Twisty phone cords. If your phone cord is all tangled up and twisty, I have to straighten it before I can leave your desk.
- Crud on the bottom of your mouse. If your mouse has dirt on the bottom of it that slows it down on the mousepad, I have to clean it off before I can leave your desk.
- Mac users with missing icons on their dock. If your Mac's dock has a bunch of question marks in it, I have to get rid of them before I can leave your desk.
- Windows users with a screwed up taskbar. If you've got your quick launch icons all covered up on the taskbar, and the task bar is three rows high when you never open more than one app at a time, I have to straighten that shit out before I can leave your desk.
- Open windows. If you've got three dozen Windows Explorer or Finder windows open, I have to minimize, hide, or close all that crap before I can leave your desk.

Those are my worst OCD pet peeves. I have more.

Oops.

noreply@blogger.com (steve) — Tue, 08 Jul 2008 22:21:00 +0000

I got a little out of control on my last post. "Washington Times" somehow registered as "Washington Post" in my addled brain. Obviously, the Times has about the same level of credibility as Fox News, so I shouldn't get too bent out of shape without some more research.

Sorry 'bout that. As you were.

"Want some torture with your peanuts?"

noreply@blogger.com (steve) — Tue, 08 Jul 2008 19:30:00 +0000

THIS just blows my fucking mind. When I first read that article, I did a goddamn spit-take to see if I was reading The Onion. Then I realized that The Onion couldn't even make shit like that up.
Seriously? Who the FUCK is running the show over at "Homeland Security"?

The Electronic ID Bracelet, as its referred to as, would be worn by every traveler "until they disembark the flight at their destination." Yes, you read that correctly. Every airline passenger would be tracked by a government-funded GPS, containing personal, private and confidential information, and that it would shock the customer worse than an electronic dog collar if he/she got out of line.

Un-fucking-believable. I'm || this close to bailing on this goddamn country and moving to Belize.

Various annoyances.

noreply@blogger.com (steve) — Mon, 07 Jul 2008 01:36:00 +0000

Not really a serious post, just a few things that have been getting under my skin as of late.

1. People who make a mad dive across six freeway lanes for the carpool lane entrance, then drive slower than traffic in the regular lanes. This one confounds me, and it seems to be perpetrated by hybrid drivers more than anyone else. If you're tryin' to hypermile, prove a point about the speed limit, or something equally retarded, do it in the slow lane, ya cocknocker.

2. Coupons and other time-consuming nonsense in the supermarket express line. If you've gotta get three cartons of smokes, a roll of quarters, and eight packs of 13 cent stamps with your fistful of coupons and your 11 other items in the 12-items-or-less line, get the hell out of the express.

3. Babysitting otherwise smart people. I know I've bitched about this here before, but there seems to be a rash of smart people calling the helpline at work for problems they could easily figure out their smart selves if they were to give it ten seconds of clear thought. But they'd rather call the helpline and make us walk to their desk and click the mouse for them instead. One helpline call I took last week didn't even require me to stop walking as I went by the user's desk, but she just wasn't havin' it when I tried to help her over the phone.

4. Beck. Am I the only one who doesn't like Beck? I get the feeling I am, since I've heard the phrase "I can't believe you don't like Beck!" about six times in the last couple months. That makes me despise his Scientologist ass even more.

5. Recent chick flicks. Normally, a chick flick now and then doesn't bother me and I'll happily watch if it has a good story. Lately, it seems like chick flicks have gone on estrogen overload. Made of Honor looks like it requires ovaries to enjoy, and Mamma Mia! might just give a guy menstrual cramps. I won't even mention Sex and the City. No mention whatsoever.

6. My own fat gut. I'm really sick of the beer gut I've got going, and I'm tired of my lack of motivation to get rid of it. I turn 37 in a few days, and I really just don't want to have this spare tire anymore. It's not like I even drink all that much beer, or eat all that much junk food. If I were to track calories, I'm sure I'd discover that I just eat portions that are too large. I'd love to blame it on the restaurant culture of huge plates of food, but really - it's just my gluttony.

7. Bashing the gear. My cow-orkers and I work pretty hard to give our users good computers and a solid network to make their jobs as easy as possible. When you do nothing but bitch about how shitty your computer is, but fall silent when I press you for specific examples of errors, I take that as a slam on me and the job I do. I don't wander around the interactive department yelling about how much the website sucks. Show me the same courtesy, fucktard. I know it's cool and/or hip to complain about how your computer blows, but unless you've got something tangible for me to work with to fix it for you, shut the hell up.

8. Ingrown hairs. My follicles have been rebelling against me lately. I've had two ingrown nostril hairs in the last month. Damn things hurt like a beyotch, besides making my nose look disfigured.

I sometimes work with children. Petty children.

noreply@blogger.com (steve) — Thu, 03 Jul 2008 08:49:00 +0000

A big project I'm participating in at work is a move of about 30 people from our main building to a new space in another building just across the sidewalk. The move is to accommodate growth, and the new space is quite nice. I would be happy to move over there myself - it's a pretty cool setup, designed by a talented architect.

One of the higher-level people moving is a person who has worked at the company for quite a long time and has since gone pretty much batshit insane with office politics and who slots where in the office pecking order. Ever since this person found out that they would be moving, they've nit-picked every last ridiculous detail of the construction of the space, to the extent of hassling the project managers on a daily basis.

Over the last few days, I've been stopped in the hallways repeatedly by various people, all of whom work under batshit insane person, and they've all asked me the same question: "Where will my office be in the new space?" Since I haven't yet committed the 3rd grade seating chart to memory, I've only been able to give out vague info to those who have asked, and I've been starting to wonder where all the questions are coming from.

Until tonight, when this email from the nit-picker hit my inbox:

Currently there are only a few people who are aware of where they are sitting in the new building. We have a lot of inquiring minds right now so please do not share the chart you have with anyone.

Thanks

Q.

What the fuck? I can't think of ANY valid reason for keeping this information secret. Maybe if we worked for the CIA, but for fuck's sake, we make ads selling cars, recliners, cameras and un-tasty energy bars. What are we worried about? Ze Germans?

Why not come out and just admit that you can't manage your department, and that you've let the situation devolve to the point where you're unable to wrangle a bunch of screaming ten year olds?

snif

noreply@blogger.com (steve) — Wed, 02 Jul 2008 19:25:00 +0000

Y'all probably know that I'm just a big 'ol softie, but reading THIS story made me all happy/weepy awesome.

Go read it. I dare you to read that and not feel better for it.

Did I mention that Wall•E is awesome? It is. Go see it.

Meme? Nono. JonJon!

noreply@blogger.com (steve) — Thu, 19 Jun 2008 07:00:00 +0000

I ran across a meme called "8 Random Facts About Me" where you're supposed to list eight facts about yourself. Blech. I'm vain and plenty narcissistic, but I have a better idea; I'm gonna write eight random facts about my very good friend, Jon Miller. Hopefully none of them will have anything to do with me, but I make no promises.

Eight Random Facts About Jon Miller:

1. His middle name: Lee. His dad's middle name: Emil.
2. He and his lovely wife just bought a new Honda Accord. They fight about who gets to drive it.
3. He used to be a kickass drummer. I don't think he's played since high school, but for all I know, he may still be a kickass drummer.
4. He used to have this small animal trap that he'd bait with peanut butter. He took glee from poking the critters with sticks, but he always let them go, unhurt.
5. He's pretty damn good at baseball. Not bad at kickball, too.
6. It's so damn fun to razz him about stuff - he gets so amusingly bent out of shape if you push the right buttons. But he always snaps right back to happy.
7. He's incredibly good at hamming it up in front of a camera.
8. He's one of the most optimistic, happy-go-lucky people I know. And he's an excellent friend.

Badger?

noreply@blogger.com (steve) — Thu, 19 Jun 2008 06:18:00 +0000

I was at work today, having a perfectly civil conversation with my boss in his office, when a woman I work with barged in and told me I have hair like a badger.I was caught too off-guard by this to come back with a witty retort; all I managed was a "Gee, thanks. I think." She tried to laugh it off, but it got all awkward for a moment before she asked my boss a question about something unrelated to what *I* was discussing with him before she bulldozed in.

How fast would I get punted in the nuts by women if I went around comparing their hair to that of small ugly creatures? "Hey there, nice innocent lady - your hair looks like an otter." *PUNT*

Even if my hair DOES look like a badger, I don't think I want people telling me so.

Creativity.

noreply@blogger.com (steve) — Wed, 18 Jun 2008 05:13:00 +0000

To the two or three of you out there still keeping up on this sad excuse for a blog, I apologize. I'm not sure what's wrong with me - I've had plenty of interesting things to write about, but no more than a thin fog of words to commit to electrons. I've got four drafts started, none with more than a sentence or two and nowhere to go.

I'm guarded with my thoughts and feelings right now, like they're a nut I need to stash away in order to survive. I've been wanting to vent, but the time or circumstances just never feel right.

Is it bad that I'm just now mixing my first drink of the evening, at nine minutes after midnight on a Tuesday? Is it worse that I'm drinking a White Russian out of a frosty beer mug because I'm too lazy to go get some ice? Hmm. If I did this more often, I might resemble a drinking problem.

Photographer Robert Capa once said: "If your pictures aren't good enough, you're not close enough." I suspect that can apply to me and this blog, too. The writing here is not good enough because I'm not letting myself get close enough.

Therapy: a break.

noreply@blogger.com (steve) — Sun, 01 Jun 2008 23:36:00 +0000

I've not blogged about therapy recently because I've decided to take a break from it for awhile. I've only got 9 sessions left for 2008, so my plan is to take what I've learned and run with it for now, then head back in later in the year when I've got questions.

I felt like I was breaking up with my therapist when I called her, but she wasn't in the office when I called. I sometimes view therapists/shrinks with a skeptical eye, always a little wary of being roped into a situation where I feel like I need to do it. I've even caught a vibe from my therapist once or twice where it seemed like she was trying to sink some hooks into me. So I'm nipping that in the bud, as it were, and taking a break.

I may still post about some of the issues I'm working on from time to time.

Therapy, session 11

noreply@blogger.com (steve) — Tue, 20 May 2008 07:37:00 +0000

Today's session was a jumble. I started off rambling about some minor, unimportant annoyances in my life, then snuck in a zinger; I told her I'd been thinking of taking a break from therapy for a month or two as I take some time to apply some of the things I've learned.

Shockingly, she was not a fan of that idea. (Was that too sarcastic?)

I mentioned that I'm a little poor at the moment (we later covered my inability to manage money), and that my 20 sessions per year paid for by my health insurance are already half gone. She then launched into a little riff about how my mental health is worth it (okay, she's got a point there), and that I should make therapy a priority (as if I don't give it enough priority in my life. sheesh.).

The rest of the session focused on my previously-mentioned lack of financial management skills, and how it relates to my relationships. I quickly learned that she puts a much higher priority on money than I do. Not that there's anything wrong with that, but she treated some of the things I said as relationship revelations, when I honestly think that they're no big deal. I do get down on myself from time to time about my poor money skills, but I certainly don't let money (or the lack of it) keep me from being happy. A minor embarrassment, sure. Relationship deal breaker, not so much.

Bah, this post is rambling. Enough for now.

500!

noreply@blogger.com (steve) — Thu, 15 May 2008 22:17:00 +0000

I think most peeps who read this blog are aware of the 366:2008 project and my 365 project from last year. Yesterday, I passed a small milestone; my 500th day of shooting a photo a day. I posted the day's 500th photo(s) over on 366:2008, but I also made a little 50 second video with the 499 photos I shot before it.
499. from steve lyon on Vimeo.

Therapy, session 10

noreply@blogger.com (steve) — Tue, 13 May 2008 07:32:00 +0000

I went into this session feeling a little feisty. See, I recently had this good conversation with a friend, where I came away with the distinct feeling like I just need to buck the fuck up and put my ancient history behind me. Acknowledge it, deal with it, learn from the mistakes, and get on with my life. Stop obsessing with the bullshit minutiae that happened to me 25 years ago and learn how to make some concrete changes in my life right here and now, today.

Those of you still reading this might be yelling "FINALLY!" at your keyboard right now. Yeah, that's how I feel about it, too.

All of my past experiences, all the hurt, the anger, the pain, the power struggles, all boil down to one thing. Fear. I'm afraid. And for me to ever experience life, to really earn my friends, to really love, to really fucking LIVE, I have to manage my fears. Sure, it'll always be easier and safer to do what I've always done, live the life I've always lived, but gee whiz Wally, look how smashingly well that strategy has worked for me so far. Playin' it safe, perfectly content to shut myself off in my own mind where nobody can sneak in and hurt me. That's been such rewarding fun.

The high dive is a cheesy, but apt metaphor for what I'm trying to convince myself to do. I'm up there, lookin' down on that water, drenched in the fear that if I let anything change my little life up there on that platform, oh gosh, I just might get hurt. What I never consider is that after 36 years of puttering around in the shallow end, I'm a pretty damn good swimmer. I can handle that dive.

I just need to trust myself.

Jump.

Post? Me? Oh, okay.

noreply@blogger.com (steve) — Tue, 13 May 2008 07:23:00 +0000

Sorry to leave y'all hanging on that tired old DMV post for so long. The DMV wasn't THAT good.

Problem is, I've been wanting to post a whole shit-ton of my thoughts recently, but my writing skills are just not up to the task of proper expression. Doesn't help that I've felt like I'm lacking traction in most aspects of my life lately.

To combat this wheelspin (hey, I love me a good car metaphor), I've made a mini resolution to try and get more of it down in pixels here.

On with it.

I love the DMV.

noreply@blogger.com (steve) — Thu, 24 Apr 2008 07:49:00 +0000

Okay, "love" is a bit of an exaggeration; maybe "blossoming relationship of non-hate" would be more accurate. On the 15th, Melba and I went to the Culver City office of the California Department of Motor Vehicles. Recalling the hell I've experienced in DMVs past, I took the day off to do battle with the usual runaway bureaucracy and the sloth-like dregs of civil service.

I could not have been more wrong. The DMV was a breeze.

Seriously. I'm not kidding. And it wasn't just a simple stop, either. Melba took (and passed) the written driver's test, got her picture taken and got her California license. I got a one-trip permit to move a car for a friend, renewed my ID, and even got some info about my driver's license. And we were out of there in 45 minutes.Not only were the folks working at the DMV speedy, they were friendly, too. Pleasant, efficient people who seemed genuinely happy to help. Amazing. Not only was that office speedy and efficient, Melba received her fresh new driver's license in the mail a snappy 5 days later, a week earlier than quoted. What service!

Kudos to you, Culver City DMV.

I am not my job.

noreply@blogger.com (steve) — Tue, 22 Apr 2008 07:25:00 +0000

My resume has been online and relatively up-to-date on all the popular career sites for a few years now. I get calls on it from time to time, and something a recruiter said to me on a recent call reminded me of an article I read about the dangers of blogging about work, and how it can have a negative impact on one's job search. I think about that article often (I'd link to it, but I can't find it now), and I've even considered pulling this blog down for fear of someone using my thoughts against me. The scenario I see in my mind is an evil HR flunky Googling me and poking around here, then using it as an excuse to toss my resume in the circular file. Cue hapless tuba riff. But then, I always return to one thought:

If a company doesn't hire me because of what I write here, then that's not a company I want to work for.

Sure, it's easy for me to say that now, in a time when I'm not desperate for a job. But I'm a strong believer in things happening for a reason, and I would much rather stay at my happy-but-underpaid job than to shutter this blog. This little collection of posts has become a small yet significant piece of who I am, and I won't give it up that easily. Even if it means losing out on a fatter paycheck. I've got principles, yo!

Therapy, sessions 7 & 8

noreply@blogger.com (steve) — Mon, 21 Apr 2008 07:58:00 +0000

I'm combining my posts from the last two sessions, since it seems like we've been covering the same topics over and over again. A topic we only touched upon briefly, but I think is very important, is my way of dealing with anger. Specifically, I keep anger stashed away for fear of expressing it. Most people who know me well seem to see me as a pretty even-keel guy, and I've got a pretty long fuse. But things do bother me, and I've never really figured out how to express anger in healthy ways; I just stash it away and ignore it. Hell, I've never been in a fight or hit anyone in anger in my life, despite wanting to on more than a few occasions.

I'm sure most of my reluctance to express anger stems from my fear of becoming my father. Seeing how he let anger ruin his life and hurt his family left an indelible mark on my psyche. I've gone to the opposite extreme; never expressing anger in any way, never letting anyone get close to me.

I plan to bring this up in the next session, see if I can learn something.

Defeated by marketing.

noreply@blogger.com (steve) — Fri, 18 Apr 2008 08:01:00 +0000

Since I'm cheap, I like to buy my personal hygiene products from Costco. I get the fat box of 1500 Q-Tips, the three mega-tube pack of Crest toothpaste, and the 2 liter bottle of Kirkland shampoo. I love it.

Recently, I was distressed to find that my favorite three pack of deodorant came with an unwanted guest: a new Gillette! Fizzion!! Mach42!!! razor. Not good. I despise the way razors are marketed. I can just see the bastards in a meeting somewhere: "Johnson, here's how we do it. We'll give the razor away, then bend the dumb lemmings over for the blade refills! Genius!" Unfortunately, the strategy works so well that the assholes who market inkjet printers are following that model to the T. But I digress.

Every year or so, right around Super Bowl time, the marketing assholes add another goddamn blade to the razor and sell it like it's god's gift to hair removal. "EIGHT BLADES!" "The first blade lifts, the second blade reaches into your follicle and gently strokes your manly ego, the third blade... blah, blah, blah." Bullshit. Total bullshit.
But the fucker works.

Yeah, I know. I know. Trust me; I did NOT want it to work. I wanted to hate the damn thing and its five blades, and gleefully throw its shiny, racing-striped, ergonomically-gripped ass in the trash, but goddamn if it doesn't work REALLY well. Crap.

Now I get to buy refills for the damn thing.

Therapy, session 6

noreply@blogger.com (steve) — Fri, 18 Apr 2008 04:24:00 +0000

This session was another one where my head just spun afterward. I was very glad to have my notebook, even though my notes are a frantic, scribbly mess.

We talked a lot about how I'm alone in my life, how I'm most comfortable when I'm alone, mainly because that's how I've always managed to keep myself safe. I've lived most of my life feeling that if I never let anyone in, they'll never be able to hurt me. I fear the unknown; the possibility that I could be hurt by someone I trust makes solitude mighty appealing in comparison.

This is a recurring topic in my therapy so far; I feel like we go over this stuff almost every session. But the more I think about it, the more I realize that my dad really put the fucking zap on my brain back in the day. He never hit me or physically hurt me, but the toxic words he pounded into my impressionable little head sure did the job on me. When I think of the possibility of someday having children of my own, I see myself, hear myself saying those same things that he said to me. Those same things his dad said to him.

When I was about 13, I had this friend named Mike who was a year or two younger than me. Mike was a good kid, a little ditzy, but fun to hang out with. One day he was over at my house and needed to call home to let his mom know where he was. At the time, we had an old-fashioned rotary dial telephone (my dad didn't believe in touch-tone) and Mike had never seen one. He didn't know how to dial it. For no reason at all, I grabbed the phone out of his hand and in just about the meanest tone, I said "You're a stupid idiot!". The moment I said it, it echoed in my own ear as if my dad had been there saying it to me. The realization hit me like a brick, and my mouth snapped shut so hard it hurt my teeth. I like to think that I apologized to poor Mike, but I don't even remember what happened after that. I hope I apologized.

I can't ever let myself do that to another person again. Ever.

Would I be as bad as my dad if I were to have kids? Hell no. But he wasn't as bad as his dad - my grandfather was an alcoholic, a master of verbal abuse and used to beat my dad with a belt. I'm sure my dad used to tell himself he'd be a better dad than his dad was. I'd just as soon break the cycle completely and never have children than perpetuate that family tradition in any way.

Not only am I afraid to let others in for fear they may hurt me, I'm also afraid of repeating the past. My solitude keeps me safe, and it keeps me from hurting anyone else. I've got to somehow get beyond that and learn to trust. Trust myself, trust others.