I totally just won the U.K. Lottery. SEE YOU LATER LOSERS.

Confession: I got suckered recently.

My dad told me a story the not-too-long-ago on the phone. It was funny in a kind of weird, distressing way, so I passed it along to someone.

The story my dad told me?

“This woman who works with your aunt has an autistic son. One day, after he’d gotten home from school, he called her at work. ‘I caught a troll,’ he said. ‘I’ve got him locked in the closet.’ She thought he was making things up, but he was very insistent, so she called her husband at work and asked him to go home and check on their son. He did, and heard banging coming from inside a closet. When he opened the closet, over his son’s protests, he found a very indignant little person, who had been going door-to-door working for the Census bureau. The son had thought he was a troll, overpowered him, and locked him in the closet.”

Sound familiar?

It should. It probably happened to a friend of a friend of yours, or your brother-in-law’s cousin, or your hairdresser’s son.

It’s a goddamn urban legend. 

Now, you’re reading this and thinking I’m a complete dumbass. And honestly, I have no idea why this didn’t raise a red flag to me. I think because it was my father telling it to me, and my father doesn’t usually fall for garbage. And he heard it from my uncle, who is very serious about things. As is my aunt. They are not the usual people who are suckered into crap.

It didn’t even hit me until a week later, when the person I’d passed the story along to said, “You know what’s funny? I told that story to my aunt, and she told me it also happened to a friend of a friend of hers! She must be friends with your aunt’s co-worker!” Ding ding ding! FRIEND OF A FRIEND. Shit shit shit. I’d passed along an urban legend. I’d become THAT GIRL. I was one step away from forwarding chain emails WRITTEN ALL IN CAPS WITH EMBARRASSING TYPOS and LOTS OF LOLS and HEARTS and CARTOONS OF FLAGS telling people that Obama is a terrorist because I’d read it somewhere on the interwebs. I might as well start wearing kittycat sweaters and getting a blue rinse in my tight old-lady perm.

What’s even more embarrassing is that I’m a huge fan of urban legends. I love to debunk those stupid emails. I’ve read books on the genesis of urban legends. I used to be obsessed with that awful show Jonathan Frakes hosted, Beyond Belief: Fact or Fiction. Did anyone else ever used to watch this? Apparently it aired from 1997 to 2002, but I caught it on reruns years later. It was horrendous. It had about six segments per episode, and you watched each segment (the segments were about ghosts, psychic phenomena, urban legends, and various other odd occurrences) and decided if it was a fact or fiction. Then at the end, Jonathan Frakes told you if you were right. Only, sometimes the show was wrong, and it would tell you that an urban legend was a fact, and that was off-putting. What can you expect, it was on FOX. The reenactments were horrendously produced, too. They were about as low-budget as they come. Like, people would run across a “set” and the walls would shake because they were made of cardboard. That bad. I LOVED IT. It was one of those shows that aired in repeats on Sunday afternoons when there was nothing else on and I’d get suckered in and I’d yell at the television. “THAT IS NOT A TRUE STORY JONATHAN FRAKES!” I would gleefully shout, as my roommate shook her head and wondered why I watched something that was obviously incorrect and awful.

I like urban legends because they are our generation’s version of fairy tales, passed from person to person, like back in the day when our ancestors would sit around the campfire telling stories to one another. Only they’re usually pretty stupid. But the ones that aren’t entertain me to no end. I love the creativity involved in them! The good old fashioned storytelling!

My favorites are the scary ones – like the gang initation/headlight thing (which many people I know ARE CONVINCED IS TOTALLY TRUE!!!) – or the really stupid ones, like the woman who dried her poodle in the microwave. I’m easily amused.

I get a lot of urban legend email forwards from people, which I like to forward back to them, with the Snopes article debunking their claim attached. The top ones they send are that Facebook is going to make us start paying for content (no they’re not), that Obama is a terrorist for so many reasons (I get this one because I’m one of those goddamn liberals and I live in the most goddamn liberal town full of goddamn liberals who are goddamn brainwashing me using their goddamn liberal brainwashing tactics – since I’m originally from a bastion of conservatism, people there think it is their duty to educate me that my beliefs are WRONG and I am SUPPORTING TERRORISTS) (and Obama isn’t a terrorist, so STOP IT PEOPLE),  and a million of those chain letters telling me that if I don’t forward them, everyone I love is going to die in a horrible bloody chainsaw tractor accident and then get hit by a meteorite sent by a  vengeful God.

STOP SENDING ME GARBAGE.

I even get them at work. It’s gotten so bad that my IT department had to send out a memo earlier in the month telling people the signs to look for that what you’re forwarding to people is probably an urban legend and not a very hot tip that your friends need to know in order to survive and not die screaming.

The tips from the IT department:

It suggests tragic consequences for not performing some action.

It promises money or gift certificates for performing some action.

It claims it's not a hoax.

There are multiple spelling or grammatical errors, or the logic is contradictory.

There is a statement urging you to forward the message.

It has already been forwarded multiple times (evident from the trail of email headers in the body of the message).

These are good tips, IT department. However, people don’t pay attention to them. They read these tips, they think, “Hey! Good tips!” and then forward the next damn hoax that comes along, because they think that the tips don’t apply to them. People think they are exempt from the rules of urban legends. Much like me and my stupid passing along of the troll story, they think “but this will not happen to ME! I would not pass along an urban legend!”

Let’s look at these tips in more detail.

It suggests tragic consequences for not performing some action/It promises money or gift certificates for performing some action/There is a statement urging you to forward the message.

People still think – STILL, and this started happening EONS ago – that Bill Gates is going to send them money for forwarding an email. It’s not going to happen. Also, those chain emails that say that if you don’t forward an email to the ten most fabulous women you know within the next fifteen minutes or you will NEVER FIND LOVE EVER and also, if you don’t send it back to the person who forwarded it to you, SHE WILL KNOW WHAT A SHITTY FRIEND YOU ARE? Well, color me shitty, because I just hit delete, asshole. STOP SPAMMING ME. Seriously. Why are you wasting our mutual time on this? Why aren’t you WORKING? At WORK? I mean, I know why I’m not. I’ve got a very important and socially-relevant blog about important things like whorish Halloween costumes and pie charts to write and if I don’t write in it, there are literally TENS of people who will be disappointed. But you? And the worst thing, one of the people who sent me the most of these, before I completely blocked her email, was in the medical field. Um. You’re supposed to be saving people’s lives, I think? And also, years of medical school, and you still think that chain letters both work and are something that you need to fill your friend’s email inboxes with? If I ever get injured, please bring me to any hospital but yours. Thanks in advance.

It claims it’s not a hoax.

I love this. That’s someone sending you an email telling you you’ve won the British Lottery, or someone telling you that they’re the Prince of Uganda and you need to deposit their check into your bank account, or a homeless person coming up to you, smelling of beer, telling you they just need $20 for a bus ticket to visit their sick mother. “But it MUST be true! It SAYS SO! Right HERE!” Yes! Yes it does. Well! Then how could it be A COMPLETE AND TOTAL FALSEHOOD. Because NO ONE HAS EVER LIED TO ANYONE EVER IN PRINT.

There are multiple spelling or grammatical errors, or the logic is contradictory.

Well, if it’s coming from one of the people who usually send me this kind of crap, the spelling errors could either be in the original message, or coming from them, honestly, so this one’s hard to tell. And as for logic – well, logic isn’t really the strong suit of people who are sending these things. People who are sending these things think that a multitude of celebrities died falling off of cliffs, that black and white caterpillars are poisonous, and casinos pump extra oxygen in to keep gamers awake and playing longer. 

It has already been forwarded multiple times (evident from the trail of email headers in the body of the message).

Then it MUST be true. Look at all the people who have already seen it! THIS IS A FAMOUS EMAIL.

Here’s my urban legend advice.

If you hear “friend of a friend” – GO TO SNOPES.COM.

If it sounds overly jingoistic and suspect – GO TO SNOPES.COM.

If you get an email forward with a lot of caps, misspellings, and teddy bear cartoons – DELETE IT.

If you send me garbage like this – BE PREPARED TO GET A SNOPES LINK FORWARDED BACK TO YOU, or, alternately, GO DIE IN A FIRE YOU’RE WASTING MY PRECIOUS TIME.

Now, send this post to everyone you know within the next ten minutes or you will not get the money that’s coming to you, you will get boils on your face, your hair will fall out, your prince will NEVER come, and you’ll get crabs the size of cockroaches. A friend of a friend told me so. IT MUST BE TRUE.

I Have a Lot to Answer for On Judgment Day.

I used to kill animals for a living.

Got your attention, right? There’s probably some journalistic name for that. Tag line, or something? What the hell do I know. I’m not a journalist. Although that would kind of be an awesome job. But only if I could say “I’m with the press” a lot, and if I got to wear a fedora.

I worked at a humane society for two years in my twenties, and, among other things, one of my duties was putting animals to sleep. I think this may have led to my jaded worldview. It’s hard to be all unicorns and rainbows when you have to give ten perfectly good dogs a shot that puts them permanently to sleep and they die in your arms, and then you have to move on to culling out the cats.

If you say this to someone, they look at you like you're a Nazi. They get big, scared eyes, like you might be concealing a death syringe in your blouse. They say, "how could you KILL the BABY ANIMALS?" I didn't slaughter them with a chainsaw or a club. I put them to sleep, quickly and humanely, so there was room for other animals in the cages. It was not something I enjoyed. I can honestly say there wasn't an employee there who was twisted enough to enjoy that part of the job. The main reason I had to do this? Because dumbasses kept either abandoning or not spaying their pets, and because people would rather adopt an inbred puppy-mill mall pet than an awesome shelter rescue.

Surprisingly enough, I loved working there. I got to work with animals, was the main reason. Yes, I had to put them down – sometimes daily, sometimes weekly – but I also got to play with them every day, and adopt them out to good homes, and reunite lost pets with their owners, so that was enjoyable.

I started out as a kennel employee and worked my way up – well, that’s really not the case, it wasn’t my can-do attitude that did it, it was the fact that people with more seniority quit – to front desk over the course of my employment. Each position had its pros and cons.

Kennel employee. Pros: more contact with the animals. More time to loaf around and chat with fellow employees. Cons: more “blue room” duty (that was the name of the room where we put the animals down – the whole room was, for some reason I never was able to ascertain, painted blue. Hence the name.) More cleaning of poo.

Sidebar. Poo. Oh, the poo. SO MUCH POO. The animals weren’t often in the best shape when they came to us. We were the only shelter in the county, so we got all of the animals – sick, healthy, stray, what-have-you – and often, the animals weren’t well. And this led to messes. Which we had to clean up constantly with hoses. And I was often covered with poo, so I’d have to hose myself off. Yes, I know. Glamorous! You didn’t really bother so much with “looking nice” when you went to work there because what was the point? There would just be poo, later. Poo everywhere.

Front desk employee. Pros: less poo. More time to sit and relax and read. More errand-running. More time to chat with the payroll clerk, who I really enjoyed talking to but who only worked in the front desk area. Cons: more chances to get bitten by animals who were freaked out by getting checked in by their owners (you’d think it would be the other way around, but I actually got bitten more as a front-desk employee than as a kennel worker.) More interaction with the public, who were 60% assholes and 40% nice.

I also got to have a gigantic bunch of keys, like a prison warden, so that was kind of impressive. I'm pretty sure this cements my total badassery for all time.

The people who came into the shelter could be broken into the following:

People who wanted to adopt, and were lovely, and left happy.

People who lost their pet and were despondent and nice and I felt bad we didn’t have it.

People who lost their pet and were angry, as if it was our fault we didn’t have it.

People who lost their pet and were there to pick it up and were happy we’d found it.

People who lost their pet and were there to pick it up and were furious they had to pay to get it back.

People who wanted to volunteer and were nice about it.

People who wanted to volunteer but had a hidden agenda, like condemning us for being a “kill” shelter.

People who were crazy. (Cat lady on The Simpsons? Pretty sure modeled after a shelter customer we had.)

Very stupid people who asked for things like "baby kittens - like, one week old? These are TOO OLD."

Thieves. 

The nice people were outnumbered by the jerky ones, who were always there. They wanted to yell at us for killing animals (but they didn’t want to take any off our hands to alleviate the overcrowding that caused us to have to put animals down in the first place.) They wanted to harass us for charging them money for things like licenses and shots and adoption fees. They wanted to adopt pit bulls to fight them and they didn’t want to get them fixed, which was mandatory at our shelter, and when we refused on both grounds, they wanted to fight us about it. (Seriously. One guy asked me if I wanted to “take this outside.” Um, not really? What are you going to do, sic one of your other dogs on me?) 

We had a handful of people who stole animals right out of their cages and ran out the back door with them – their own pets, because they couldn’t afford to get them back, or animals they wanted to adopt. We ended up having to lock the animals in their cages, it got so prevalent. We had a woman who did a super-secret “expose” about the shelter and our practices and put it in the paper and THAT brought the kumbaya people out of the woodwork for almost a month. (There was nothing wrong with the shelter or our practices. We had to accept every animal that came in the door. Because of that, we had to put animals down. We had a finite number of cages. There is nothing confusing about this. We treated the animals well, we were kind to them, and ask anyone who works at a shelter where there is overcrowding, euthanization is a sad, but necessary, fact.) 

There were exciting moments. One year, there was a rabid skunk outbreak in the county, so the animal control officers had to set up skunk traps all over the county and bring us skunks, which we then had to put down with a syringe attached to a long pole and send off to be tested. At least once a day, one of my coworkers would come in, all, “Have to go home, got sprayed” and we’d be a man down as they tomato-bathed the smell away (it never completely went away.) Once someone brought us a buzzard they found by the side of the road and I got to feed it hamburger meat. Once we got to take care of a horse. Once we got to pull porcupine quills out of a doped-up dog who kept trying to bite us but was so drugged he was moving as slow as a sloth so we could avoid his slow, slow jaws. We also had, over the course of my employment, chickens, rabbits, ferrets, snakes, birds, fish, and raccoons. 

We had court-case dogs on lockdown in a back room – dogs that were being held while their fate was decided by a judge. We’d have them for anywhere from ten days to almost a year. We all fell in love with a German shepherd who’d killed a goat and were all rooting for him, until the court ruled in favor of his destruction. All of the shelter employees, who’d been taking care of him for the better part of eight months, crowded around him as we gave him his shot, and all five of us, who, just to look at us, were kind of badasses, bawled our eyes out. 

Another dog being held was a lab-pit mix with amber eyes. He was the most beautiful dog. And protective, and sweet, and very intelligent. Unfortunately, his protective side had led him to bite someone, who was suing to get him destroyed. One of my coworkers – a quiet, tough guy with tattoos and a shaved head – loved that dog. When the order came to destroy him, he said he’d do it himself, and brought him into the room. My heart hurt. When, a couple weeks later, that same coworker showed up at work with his new dog – a lab-pit mix with amber eyes, but now, a different name - our eyes met. We never discussed it again. As far as I was concerned, it was a different dog. A different, loving, protective, sweet, intelligent dog, who acted like he’d known me for the better part of a year. 

I was bitten a number of times, but never badly. Only on the hand, and only by cats. Cats are mean! Dogs telegraph when they’re going to bite, usually. Cats are snake-quick and have sharp little teeth. When we got bitten, we had to go to the free clinic for antibiotics. It got to the point where they knew all of the shelter employees by name over there. I was on antibiotics more than I wasn’t. One of the hazards of the job, I guess. 

People were also a joy in that they’d do things like leave boxes of tiny kittens outside our door in the middle of a winter night so that when we came in in the morning, we’d have a box of dead kittens to deal with. Thanks! Apparently the “Humane” part of the name escaped you when you decided this was a good idea. We also got a dog someone had shot in the head and left for dead – somehow he’d survived, and a very nice family adopted him – a dog someone had set on fire who needed skin grafts, and a number of cats people threw out of the window of their car at the shelter building and just peeled out of the lot. Just in case you think the human race is on an upswing, go work at an animal shelter for a few days. 

Also, in case you think this was a totally glamorous and high-paying gig? Minimum wage, 10 hour days, no two days off in a row until you had seniority (it took me almost two years to get the seniority to get the two consecutive days off, and then I moved to another state, which meant giving up my plum time-off position, dammit), no sick time, and vacation time only after you'd worked there a year (and it was up to the discretion of the director if you could take it or not, or when you could take it, after that.) None of us were there for the glamour, I can assure you. 

So yes, I’m an advocate for adopting your pets, not buying them from a puppy mill. I’m an advocate for spaying and neutering. I donate to animal-related charities. I still go all smooshy when I see a big, tough pit bull being walked down the street (contrary to popular belief? They are honestly very, very sweet. We had more chow and small yappy-dog bite cases over the years than pits.) I am fantastic with animals, but I also know the dark side of it all. I’m very practical about it. Chalk it up to skills I have, but hope to never have to use again: I can tell how old a cat is by looking at its teeth; I'm not easily grossed-out by some of the nastier messes an animal can produce; I can tell you what sex your kitten is with a quick peek; and I used to kill animals for a living.

Stop asking. YOU ARE NOT INVITED.

I would make an excellent rich person. I know this because I make an extraordinarily shitty poor person; therefore, using the law of opposites, I would be equally as awesome a rich person as I am an awful poor one.

The way I see it is, rich people make a lot of mistakes with their money. Like, Nicholas Cage. He recently had to declare bankruptcy and I’m pretty sure (but I’m not going to research it because I’m feeling kind of lazy today) that part of the problem was that he kept buying castles. Well, Nicholas Cage, that seems like a very stupid use of your money. First, once you started wasting your talent on things like National Treasure, you had to know that the money wasn’t going to keep pouring in, so you probably should invest, and buying real estate is a tenuous investment at best. I mean, I don’t know a lot about things, and I’m not a conspiracy theorist or anything, but I’m pretty sure I’ve read in a few places that the real estate market sucks right now. And castleS? Like, MULTIPLE castles? Why would anyone need more than one castle? I can see the appeal of one castle – I mean, who can’t, having your own castle would be awesome, you could stage, I don’t know, your own version of A Game of Thrones in your foyer, and wear period gowns to dinner, if you wanted, because, hey, you’re that chick that owns a CASTLE, you’re already kind of branded an eccentric, what the hell – but unless you’re royalty, you don’t really need more than one castle. OK, well, maybe two castles. Maybe a home castle and a vacation castle on an island, or something. But really more than two castles is just showing off.

And Wesley Snipes. He got in trouble for not paying his taxes. I know, the more money you make, the higher your tax bracket is. I work for an accounting firm. I have above-average knowledge of how the tax bracket system in our country works. But what makes you think you don’t have to pay them? I know you couldn’t have forgotten them. It’s all the news talks about, come April, that the 15th is fast approaching. I mean, I live hand-to-mouth and I pay my damn taxes. You make like, say, a million bucks a year and you can’t be bothered to pay the government what you owe them? Pay your damn taxes! The longer you let it go, the more they accrue and the more you owe. Also, there are penalties and such. Also, I can’t imagine you’re all too popular in prison when you’re in for tax evasion. You’re probably pretty low on the totem pole when you did something that stupid. “What are you in for?” “Killed and ate my mother. You?” “Refused to pay THE MAN!” “Yeah. Bottom bunk. Also, I own you now.”

If I were a rich person – like, enough money that I could play with it, and still have a cushion to fall back on – I would really be truly awesome at it. I would invest enough that I would have plenty to live on forever. Then the following conversation would happen with my boss:

“Hi, Amy. Today, I’m going to need you to do this copying, file these two rooms full of files, cover the phones, do this job that really doesn’t matter but I like to make work for you to do when I have time to think of such things, and also do all of the things that actually fall under your job description. Oh, also deal with the copier repairman who you think is a serial killer and is going to stuff your body in his trunk. And I think from 12-2 people are going to make irrational demands of you, so pencil that in.”

“SUCK IT.”

Next up: my own private island.

I want an island. Castle? Eh, sure. Only if Nicholas Cage doesn’t come with it, though. No one needs that kind of bad juju hanging around their rockin’ castle. See, when I was a kid, my great-uncle had this camp on an island which has been my dream home ever since. You had to take a boat to get there. (This will come in handy when the apocalypse comes, because you’d have plenty of warning and time to fortify if you were about to be invaded. Also stalkers and murderers, who I am always sure are waiting just outside my apartment, would not be able to find me. Although it would not protect much against zombies, because they can just walk underwater. They don’t need to breathe.)  This camp was excellent. It had a boathouse with a dock you could just dive off into the water any time you wanted. In the boathouse was a huge bar so you could get a drink and sit out and look at the lake. There was an attic that you could only get to by accessing a secret hatch in the ceiling full of toys and old things and a weird miniature piano. There were a million books. The whole thing was surrounded by the woods, so you could explore. It was perfect. This is what I want. I want an island.

No. You can’t come to my island. OK, this is very important. I know, once I get my island, everyone’s going to be angling for an invite. It’s a PRIVATE island. That not only means I don’t share the island with other HOMES, it means I don’t share the island with HANGERS-ON. I may invite people, on a very select basis, to my island. But don’t be calling me up, all, “Hey! How’s life on that super-awesome island! Man, I have a vacation coming up, I WONDER what I could DO with my TIME, I have NOTHING planned!” Because I will recommend you take a staycation. You cannot guilt me into letting you come to my island. Have I mentioned enough that I don’t like people? Here’s a true story for you: when I was a kid, I had my first sleepover. I was very excited. I invited over a friend. We rode bikes and played with Barbies. And a couple of hours later, I went to my mother and said, “I’m ready for her to go home now. Can we send her home now?” Five-year-old me didn’t like people; rich grown-up me won’t like them, either.

You know who IS invited to my island?

All the animals. I’m going to go all Noah up on my island, yo.

No, seriously. I want all the animals. I want all the dogs and cats I haven’t been able to have because of space or time or whatever other restrictions I have placed on my life. But also! I want goats and cows and horses and random zoo animals. But I don’t want monkeys. Because when I was young, we went to Parc Safari in Canada? That is a drive-through animal park. I don’t know why it’s spelled with a “c.” I guess that’s French. Anyway, in the monkey area, there was a sign not to slow down or stop, because the monkeys would swarm your car. And the guy in front of us apparently was an illiterate because he stopped to take a photo. AND MONKEYS SWARMED HIS CAR. As our carful of parents and kids watched both gleeful and horrified, monkeys STRIPPED HIS CAR OF ANYTHING SHINY. Like, the chrome flashing and the antenna and the license plate. They were more efficient than a chop shop. Ever since, I have had a recurring nightmare that I am trapped somewhere and unable to move and there are monkeys. SO MANY MONKEYS. With their fast, cunning hands. NO MONKEYS ON MY ISLAND.

Also on that trip an ostrich pecked my dad’s best friend really hard in the stomach and I got to feed a giraffe out of my hand. I’m pretty sure due to lawsuits these things can’t occur anymore.

Anyway. All the animals. Animals who are broken! Animals with missing legs! Animals that people have given up on! I will be an animal hoarder, only not gross like on the show Hoarders because the animals will not be swimming in their own filth. See, I like animals more than people. An island of animals is kind of the most awesome thing I can think of. Well, except that movie The Island of Dr. Moreau. That was not the most awesome. The Val Kilmer version? So distressing. Marlon Brando! And a mini-Marlon Brando! So awful!

Now I have my own island, with no people on it SO STOP ASKING, and all the animals and they are awesome (oh, also no birds, they annoy me, except for hawks, which don’t really count, because they are raptors, and exciting and not all flitty and high-strung and pecky) I can do the other things in life that I want to do, which are (after caring for the animals, of course):

Being completely and totally lazy
Reading
Randomly donating money to causes anonymously that need it to see how happy it makes people
Playing for hours online and not worrying about wasting time because I HAVE NOTHING BUT TIME
Watching every single television show and movie that I have ever had the slightest interest in, ever
Eating and drinking fancy things like petit fours
and
being more lazy.

Seriously, this is what rich people don’t do that I think they should. Why don’t more rich people give poor people that need it their money once and a while? I’m not saying that every ten minutes they should donate $100,000 to Save the Whales, or something (ooh, also, I’m totally going to have fish. Maybe not whales, but I do like fish. They are restful and pretty. But they die a lot on me. I’m like a fish mass-murderer. I don’t know what’s up with that. Fish commit suicide on my watch. Except algae eaters! I can grow those suckers to the size of the tank. Now that I think about it, I might have an algae issue) but there are plenty of places that a small amount of money can go a long way. Like Donors Choose. Teachers go on there and need, like, $200 so they can buy books. BECAUSE THEIR SCHOOL CAN’T AFFORD BOOKS. Seriously? How can rich people not give kids books? Maybe that’s WHY rich people don’t give to charities like this, because they wouldn’t be rich for very long. BOOKS. Or sometimes DRY ERASE BOARDS. Because schools can’t afford these things anymore.

Best rich person ever, on my eccentric island full of three-legged one-eyed pets and books and NO PEOPLE. Well, maybe some people. But I might want you to go home after an hour or so. I can’t guarantee anything. Oh, and no llamas. Llamas SPIT and DROOL, in case you weren’t aware, and that is GROSS. Rich people don’t have time for grossness. Too busy being fancy.