i am your mother's absolute favorite [entries|friends|calendar] oh no amanda mac [ website | the old m-a-c ] [ userinfo | livejournal userinfo ] [ calendar | livejournal calendar ]

where the lp ends [29 Mar 2008|01:48am] it starts with that opening track. the catchy chord progression. the snappy strumming pattern. the mischievous rhyming couplet. its waiting there for us when we get home. and he opens the bottle. rattle. he comes back to bed the candles are lit. two of them. i unbutton my shirt while he watches. his eyes are softening. i unbutton my pants. he puts his hand on my stomach. static. track two. the lyrics are sub-par. i lie down on my back. song resolves in a minor key. hair spills across the cool pillowcase. cold fingers.. but contact with skin warms them. behind knees, behind ears. body temperature negotiates, compromises with his. breath in time. track three. rising action. 2 melodies blending into something unified by a tonic them. the rock-a-billy track. blaring f-7 chord. sexy chorus. and the bed moves; syncopated. track 4. its slowing down. this song is about adultery. the bed is moving faster. wait. shaky elbows. flip the record over. static. dear calvin: i listened to the b-side by myself. candles still burning. no sounds but the sound of the turntable spinning. dear calvin: it's 2 am. are you drinking alone? are you alone, drinking? maybe i shouldn't have yelled. maybe you shouldn't have lied. humans are in the habit of doing both these things. dear calvin: the album is still spinning. there's no one on top of me. the last track was an understatement. i pray for you and your shaky elbows. and tonight will be fine. the needle keeps time. i'm asleep in the place where the lp ends. can i get your number baby?

one more semester down [18 Dec 2007|11:43pm] that all happened fast. those months passed, those nights became mornings and afternons, those weekends ended, those wednesdays dragged on. lets sum it up: horrid goodbyes and happy hellos, mechanical horses on broadway, barefooted drummers in park slope, a few thousand essays, the magic apartment, evenings swallowed by used book stores, subway station confusion fused with sexual tension, bedroom jam sessions, full wallets turned inside out, heartbursts in movie theaters, 3 am 3 train, suprise phone calls, chants for justice, leonard on vinyl, city sand against our eyelids, blue fucking skies and soaking wet boots. then this morning i threw three boxes of tea out the window and climbed into the shower with the lastest note. i had make sure that every bit of ink was washed away. and while we walked the 24 blocks home i said to florence, "you know, this is the end of something. but i finally feel like i'm getting started." 1 digit ! can i get your number baby?

[30 Sep 2007|01:17am] i am alone. i fall asleep alone. ride the bus alone. shower alone. listen to music alone. decipher graffiti alone. pet stray cats alone. write alone. for the first time in three years: you are not on my shoulder, you are not under my tongue, you are not hanging from my earlobe. i am learning how to fall asleep alone. can i get your number baby?

[19 Jul 2007|12:15pm] [ music | Roy Orbison ] i am bleeding again. it pools in my shoes. stains on the couch. pink bubble baths. no razors in the bathroom anymore, and no running. no corn chips or popcorn. no bare feet at work. no staple removers. i have to remember to take my earrings out before i go to bed. i live my life in a threshold, in the threshold between thresholds. manchester/new york. old boy/new boy. family/real world. skinny arms/chubby legs. good writing/crap writing. cityside/surfside. moderate/severe. moderate/severe. its hard to medicate me. they might make my heart stop. better to treat the symptom at this stage. but maybe next week... better/worse. no tripping. no hangnails. no papercuts. should i wear gloves? should i sleep in a separate bed because you kick? my purse is full of bandaids and gauze and alcohol wipes and i am tired of the stinging and the dirty, broken flesh. it is not cool to wear elbow pads when biking. it is not easy to bike while wearing shin guards. i can't pick up my dogs if i am not wearing long pants and long sleeves. when did this happen? what did i do? has the monotony of the second story elm street window put my dna to sleep? or is my dna having an affair with an older woman, my grandmother maybe - she has too many platelets and they're starting treatment tomorrow. my platelets hate each other and they won't stick together. maybe it's true - my divisive personality is really in my blood. i pulled out an eyelash this morning when i was putting on my makeup. it bled. i had bloody tears. can i get your number baby?

[12 Jul 2007|11:01am] you and i, we are people of mud. we thrive in the thick of july. too small for two, the bedsheets are heavy. i face the open window. "can i smell the rain too?" and you place your hand on my stomach. its hard to feel naked when its humid. my calves are deadweights after a run, after fighting the breeze by the river. maybe that's why. when we battle the heat, we can't battle each other. three years nearly and we still bat for the same team. when the sun is too bright i can stand in your shadow. you'll leave at 6 in the morning when my brain is still oatmeal and in a few days we'll walk in the tidepools and it will all still be fine. and when my tummy swells you will squeeze my palms. when i cry you will lead me outside. the house is only a membrane. the soupy atmosphere doesn't yield to vinyl siding. you'll eat most of the pint of blueberries while i scratch at my toes. thank you for not forcing me to eat. and even once this month expires i'll know that a year from now we will be wrapped up again in this muggy old mist and i will still love you. can i get your number baby?

[13 Dec 2006|04:33pm] [ music | Follow The Cops Back Home::Placebo ] i am so insufferably myself sometimes. can i get your number baby?

[06 Dec 2006|07:04pm] [ music | Trailer Song::The Felice Brothers ] some stupid poet said, "grief hides behind trash cans." no. grief never hides. grief is not comparable to the tissue that didn't make it into the rubbish bin. grief rips closed doors from their hinges. grief invades bed sheets. grief blocks the light from the window, breathes on your eyelids and stares you right in the fucking face. i have no religion, no god. your sudden beautiful, generous, and wise apparition in my life was better than any promise about an angel. my overwhelming, unquestioning love for you is the closest thing i'll ever know to blind faith. can i get your number baby?

writing sample fall 2006 [20 Nov 2006|02:30am] The Ice Fisherman (prior to final proofread) You could not see the pond from the road, but you could see the road from the pond. Flat, as if smoothed by one mammoth hoe, the trail of asphalt bent and curved to hug the outline of the murky reservoir before mounting one of the huddled surrounding hills and pulling its way up, out of the valley, toward the border shared by Vermont and Canada. From the crest of that hill, through the streaky window of the bus, the pond could have been a meadow, its presence marked by the abrupt edge of the tree line. The distinguishing rocks and mud of the embankment, as well as the great well of water itself, were fixed immobile and concealed beneath a wooly carpet of snow. He stood now on the ice in rubber-soled tennis shoes several feet from the bank. The sunlight was dim. Snow had melted around his shoelaces and leaked into the holes through which they were woven. His ski jacket was bulky and insular, but his pants were not. Cold diffused through the department store designer denim and made the muscles behind his knees shrink. The figure in the center of the frozen pond was equally unmoving. Yer crazy as ‘at old ice fisherman! The soundtrack to schoolyard snowball fights unwound in his mind like a squeaking cassette tape, screams and pubescent cackling and empty, repetitive threats. The ice fisherman – yeah! Think ya got aim, boy? Throw yer snowball ‘cross the pond, I dare ya. Knock ‘at fucker right over. He shook out his stiffening fingers within his suede driving gloves. He hoisted the leather strap of his overnight bag across his shoulders, dusting away the snow with a Gortex sleeve. He instinctively rubbed his wrist against his chin, peppered with whiskery graying stubble after 13 hours of northbound travel. He began again trudging across the ice, toward the vaguely human shape in the distance. New York had been hot. Making retrospective sense of it within the confines of the crawling bus, he recalled the temperature most clearly. His elbows, resting on his desk, had felt hammered into the wood by the heat. His forehead had throbbed against his sweaty palms. The delicate cotton of his undershirt had clung to his damp chest. The perspiration that trickled down from his starched collar and along his spine had been rank with the sticky, condensed perfume of fabric softener and aftershave. From the 34th story window he had seen nothing but birds and sky. “Yes,” he had directed the intercom static. “Cancel all my appointments for tomorrow.” As he drew nearer the scene before him came into focus. The white of the untouched snow became distinguishable from the gray patches of ice where it had been cleared away. He saw a shovel and an ice pick leaning against a folding chair. A coffee tin was set on the ice beside it. A man in a plaid flannel coat was seated, hunched over, in the chair. From a shadowy space between the oversized flaps of a fur-lined hunting cap tumbled a knot of white facial hair. The old man’s wrists rested on blanketed knees, between which was held a thin and antiquated fishing rod. Receding sunlight illuminated the lax blue thread of fishing line against the crystalline expanse of the pond. The line ran parallel to the rod and then plunged at an obtuse angle, translucent and gleaming, into a hole in the ice no bigger than a fist, which looked more like an ink stain upon the unblemished sheet of ice than a pinhole gateway to the hibernating liquid dimension below. The occasional crackling gust of a truck passing on the perimeter road distracted his focus momentarily from that towards which he walked. With the distant drone of a motor, a shallow awareness of the town and its inhabitants washed over him. Again he recalled the critical tone of the boys on the playground, and its continued inflection among the voices that crowded his memories of the Main Street pub. Ice fisherman up t’is Eskimo tricks again! Among his childhood recollections, the words were as much a part of the ritual onset of February as the blurry image of a mythical groundhog annually broadcasted on the morning news. The slurred sound of female speculation, articulated with the granite heaviness of Northern New England speech, similarly hovered around his memories of a burning wood stove. Man can’t be from aroun’ ‘ere. No V’mont boys I see a’ out drillin’ ‘oles in th’ ice. Boyishly idealized imaginings of a rumored native Saskatchewanian mother danced beneath the dusty surface of these soundbytes. It was the only image his mind’s eye could envision in the midst of those remembered voices. Two decades of distanced adulthood had reduced all associated persons to a blurry sea of faces incapable of aging, frozen in the neglected realm of memory. Not even the intermittent noise from road occurred to him as being of the present. The truck drivers seemed merely affects of the setting of his upbringing, their likely expressions of judgment absent from his adult consciousness as he struck out across the pond toward the unchanged alien ice fisherman. From the elevator he had telephoned his mother to make arrangements. Delighted to hear his voice, she had worried that it sounded hoarse. He had assured her that it was fleeting; it was humid in the elevator car. She hadn’t understood his proposal at first. Twice she had asked him if he was calling to remind her again to file her taxes. At the moment she finally realized the meaning of her son’s intended travel plans, his stomach had turned as the elevator settled into line with the building’s first floor. She had asked, as an absurdly excited afterthought, like a middle-aged bride, if he needed to be picked up at the bus depot. “I can just walk around the pond to the back of the house,” he had stated. Sweat had collected on his upper lip while listening to her gleeful clucks of surprise. “Right, it’s just ‘cross the street!” she had exclaimed. “Cold home air, it’ll clear yer head. Ay, boy, been quite some time now.” Exiting the elevator, he had nodded in agreement. The sun was setting rapidly as he shuffled through the snow. He moved slowly to avoid slipping. Beyond the darkening silhouette of the ice fisherman he attempted to identify a lit windowpane. His dewy eyes stung with the bite of the frost. Behind them, the view from that bedroom window unfurled. It looked out over every season. He remembered winter best. He felt again the awe inspired by his view of the ice fisherman’s hunched patience. He sensed in himself ripened fragments of the teenage voyeur that had gazed out of that window while packing his trunk for a spring term at Philipps Andover. Ice fishe’man out theh, they say he was born jus’ ‘utside town. His ears unwillingly reddened with the resurgence of his father’s thick accented voice. He was aware again of the way his father had stood, with Yankee stoicism, behind him on the coiled bedroom rug. S’ppose he went ‘way f’a while, some years. Came back wi’ the winter fishin’ ‘abit. Don’t know why bother he come home. No fish dur’n’ V’mont winters. He was close enough now to hear the water lap faintly around the ice fisherman’s hole. He had packed his overnight bag hastily on the unmade bed in the basement apartment. He had nearly finished collecting his toiletries when he heard Lucy climb out of the sloshing bathtub. His hands had trembled as he fumbled with the zippers on his luggage, hearing her footsteps. The muscles in his lower abdomen had seized as she wrapped her moistened arms around his waist. He had stood still as she twisted, naked, around him. She had stood between him and the bag. Both her cheeks and her breasts had been smooth and blushed from her bath. He had swallowed when her hot breath tickled his adam’s apple. He had noted the jutting details of her ribcage as they brushed against his suit. She had mocked his bus tickets, whispering in a rasper, “Your parents are in their eighties.” As she laughed, the tight lilt of youth speckling her chuckle, she arched her body backward towards the bed. He had sunk to his knees. Her nipples, hardened to a point, had pierced his stare like a sunken set of eyes. Below them had protruded her navel, a placeholder, like a nose stationed above a brusque black triangle bearding a red and malevolent mouth. He stood before the ice fisherman. The day’s final rays of sunlight glinted off several weatherworn buttons on the ice fisherman’s coat. In the settling dusk, caught in light swirls of frigid breeze, the coat rose and fell slightly. Beneath the rubber soles of his tennis sneakers, air trapped beneath the thick cover of ice let out a low and lamenting moan. He had not asked his mother about her usual bedtime. He wondered if it was too late. The ice fisherman’s head did not rise. The drooping brim of the hunting cap masked the ice fisherman’s eyes. He set his leather bag down on the ice. He stepped forward, straddling the hole. His knees nearly touched the folding chair. He extended a gloved hand toward the ice fisherman’s bulky shoulder. Weight shifted, the folding chair creaked, and the stiffened body of the ice fisherman hit the ice with a frozen crackling thud. He stood with his feet planted squarely on the ice. With hot, sweaty palms he gripped the rusty fishing rod. In the distance across the pond, a light flickered can i get your number baby?

[06 Nov 2006|06:26pm] I nearly fell asleep but beyond my eyelids flickering i saw the full moon reflected, cast onto glass across the room, framed just above the image of my hip bone and your left ear. It was as round, and as white, and as dented and imperfect as my knee cap, or the heel of my sole. And you craned your neck, and you dug with your fingertips, and your breath came faster and harder and hot and I thought, "you are watering a rose bush in the desert. this is what futility means." And you keep breathing you keep on heaving its the same tactics different angles but you keep on believing. Tell yourself I'll come back to you. Back to the fall. Back to the river. You love me. You tell me I'm beautiful. Your breath is hot against my tailbone, it writhes up my backbone, it stretches out like a sheet between my shoulders and the pillows, it gathers there, it forms a cloud, it rises, heat rises, I rise supported by it and I am just that much higher. You'll never leave me. I'll never escape you. And always, with your breathing, you leave me tingling, believing that something will bloom if I give it one more night. This is love. can i get your number baby?

[14 Oct 2006|09:23am] the world works in mysterious ways. i am apparently uninspired this morning. i could use a cup of coffee. my fingers are so cold in the morning - GOOD MORNING OCTOBER. 2 digits ! can i get your number baby?

explosive solitude sundays at six [24 Sep 2006|08:13pm] one of the two windows looks out onto amsterdam avenue. it is impossible to sleep into the morning here - the world wakes up so much earlier than you might realize. yet, my coffee percolator goes unused, tea bags untouched. 100 pounds of a person, without addictions, can spend less than $5.00 a day in this neighborhood. that is who i am now. anansi-the-spider-self - she inhabits only the past now. on the second of may, when, in the arthritic light of the late afternoon, i threw my spine against the floorboards, i tore my abdomen apart at the seam, expelled the instinctual compulsion to spin webs and be continually spinning. did you see the force with which it burst forward, so visceral and viscous? you did. you felt the breeze. you were watching me. i was naked, tattooed by the shadows that were always being thrown through the window (are they still being thrown through that window?), and you thought, 'she is beautiful and she is leaving and i don't know her any better than i did before she snuck into my pillow cases.' it's no fault of yours. by definition you could not be privy to my celiac revolution. and now? i've done it; pulled in those arachnid limbs and committed to one heart beat, one city, one figure of speech. i've declared myself to be beyond the potential for martyrdom and am instead preparing to live for the comprehensive, to saunter into the next season until breathing ceases and my mind is finally empty of things to say. i've taught myself how to cry again - after nearly 8 months of dry goodbyes and jaded dreamscapes i'd imagined myself devoid of the ability, no - i feel again, and in a new way, without regard for the past or the unrequited or the ubiquitous or the unresolved. self-determined liberation! - a mantra and an aetheistic prayer. i have severed the silk chains in exchange for a chance to experience the world of then hands-on with all 10 fingers free. this is adulthood with out the woven net of self-protection, with only the spoken 'i trust new york.' 2 digits ! can i get your number baby?

[03 Sep 2006|12:34am] my room is coming together and my social life appears to be following suit. while the last entry was cathardic, it was also inaccurate. it's after midnight, i'm full, skinny, ready to sleep and very much alright. so it's kickin'. tomorrow's tomorrow. time to write. can i get your number baby?

[02 Sep 2006|03:45pm] i find myself in new york city. i am anxious and nervous and exhausted from walking back and forth from everywhere while being both of the former things. i miss my boyfriend so desperately. conclusion: i am pathetic? maybe not just yet. once the people with whom i am already acquainted arrive and settle somewhere on this campus i'll be more easily distracted. once classes start i'll have things to mindlessly read. i'll be needing a job and there's a whole list of ways in which i could be productive, so this update is a side-track: maybe it wouldn't be so bad to have someone living in this room with me right now. the room is big, the lighting is fine, the street below is noisy and the walk is about one block. i am close to a subway stop. i am not close to a rite aid. i wish i could be in my real house right now. i am twenty years old, and i am so sick of my stubborn, selfish, dream-chasing self. i just need a little patience, but it's harder to do than say. i'll connect with people and figure it out and i'll leave the wretchedness of this moment somewhere else. it just takes so much work. a week ago i was on a mountaintop and everything felt normal and starting over at starting over just takes a lot out of a person. last night i looked pretty but i have no idea what i look like. i don't understand my appetite and i don't understand my suitemate and, while i do understand alcohol, i really wish alcohol didn't exist. but so; there is no point in fussing over what can and can't be rushed. there is no point in brooding over a relationship that has a chance. there are a few things that i can get done today and you best believe i'll get them taken care of. at 6:00 i have an engagement. i'll take pictures. i'll be back on the ball. what do i have to complain about? i worked hard and earned this room in new york city. i find myself in new york city, and now i'll just have to fucking find myself. bring it on for the sixth time. i mean, hey, i bought a rug this morning. can i get your number baby?

[22 Aug 2006|12:04am] [ mood | awake ] [ music | Kristin Hersh, Your Ghost ] Apparently, I've finally come face to face with the inability to sleep. What with Lewis stationed beyond the borders of the Verizon Wireless coverage area and tomorrow being a day that requires me to a have a reasonably clear head, I have neither an ear to pour my listlessness into nor a way to justify leaving the house. Speaking of leaving, I head for the hills in 7 days. All the general emotions accompany this scheduled departure - I am fulfilled, mostly. All parties agree that my self has recentered and that New York is the logical next step. I feel my aura taking on an anticipating shade of blue. I hope that the city can keep my wandering fingertips occupied. Oh, how I crave the creative. If Nate is home while I am, we'll listen to a Will Oldham album in the living room. Pittsburgh was full of such closed doors, and yet, this summer's proved that gratification is only gained by way of legitimated existence. Hence, my dearests go without correspondence and I hurl what's left of my gut feeling into notebooks. Ah, so I'll drive to the Canadian border with just my solemn and my Grandma's 8-Tracks. Then my family will deliver me to the doorstep of yet another month of unknown territory. Hermitage, hermitage, so much has been accomplished. Now that I know who I am and what I'm doing, I guess it's time to get on with the self-expression. Adulthood, here I come. These past three months may have been the most decisive and defining of my ever. Now I'll just place that call to the office of eternal self-loathing and call off the engagement. Simple emotional mathematics proved it on paper Sunday morning - all's spankin' as far as the eye can see. can i get your number baby?

[07 Aug 2006|03:41pm] closure? JOKE. i guess i'll find out. can i get your number baby?

notes to self [25 Jul 2006|11:48am] maybe the world is just too big, i'm thinking. new england even seems too big right now, compared to me, compared to my wallet. i've traded in endless stretches of grimey manchester nights for sutffy vehicular solitude and miles of highway. even the conversations i attempt to carry on while shoulder-scratching in the middle of neighborhood streets are rushed, neither of us fully dressed. and then there's the oncoming emotional traffic to worry our decisively monogamous heads over. are we so disillusioned as to think that you won't combust? you will! you will burst into atomic particles and, by then, i will be unchanged in new york. don't get me wrong, i love the warping effect that this full-throttle lifestyle has unleashed on my mood. i've done a better job of acting like physically sound human being in the past few weeks. i'll admit that manchester brings out the worst in me when it comes to self-pity. then again, when i compare myself to my comrades-in-arms, i can't help but allow myself some pride. we are home at the moment, for better or for worse. what exactly do you all have to look forward to, anyway? why do so many of you feel the need to act so held back all the time? perhaps i am wrong in believing that tomorrow will eventually come. in my downtime, i come up with questions i might ask whenever i get around to executing, in real time, my intent to obtain forgiveable independence. bus rides are good for that, and boy, do i have bus rides to look forward to. tomorrow, tomorrow, kangamangus, tomorrow. it's impossible to tear one's hair out in the water. i wish i didn't have to be so permanently fleeting. lucky thing, isn't it, that my eyes are so big? nobody forgets them. 1 digit ! can i get your number baby?

hello july [20 Jul 2006|02:58pm] things are kickin', per usual. my bathroom is under construction and my parents have taken a holiday, but i made the adjustment to living out of my car rather seamlessly. washing my hair has been optional since i got home, so that hasn't been an issue. speaking of cleansing activities, i've officially withdrawn from carnegie mellon, "with no intention to return." sweet? not as sweet as the dinner party i'll be attending tonight, and definately not as sweet as either the single room i've been guaranteed in nyc or the scholarship that's covering the cost of it. to quote the other and only william blake, "there is so much more out there than pittsburgh." and i mean, hey! you never know what's out there. for instance, i never knew that there could be life without the perpetuation of mutually abusive and irrational friendships. who knew? i may finally be left with only one romantic liason to nurture, and i may actually be sure that it's the only one i want. you might say i've thrown in certain towels, but be assured, they were child-sized and threadbare by the time i finally 'gave up.' personally, i'd like to think that i've done nothing but allow a number of long-abandoned parts of myself to reach, at last, their final resting places. at this point, growing up just makes the most sense. i don't know whether i did it out of fear or angst or premonition, but i've realized now that, before i set out for PA last august, i shoved most of my emotional priorities under my manchester mattress and left them there with the intention of forgetting and being forgiven. rediscovering those values and aspirations, preserved in the nutrient-rich crystal of mistake and perspective, can be compared to being cured of a chronic illness. i am a woman of love renewed, and, for the first time, a person capable of trust. i am also a free-lance hipster with a evening engagement to dress for, so that's that. 1 digit ! can i get your number baby?

[11 Jul 2006|04:53pm] everything's perfect. so much is buried. new york in the fall. new england until then. i'm tan. not too sick. not too guilty. i think about the different countries all the time. sweden, canada. i think about airplanes, surprises. i'm right, that much is obvious. i'm taking time off from all forms of writing, creative and otherwise. i read instead. i'll write when i get to new york. i'm too burnt out to write a christmas card. its great, not explaining myself, nonverbal communication. i might get some new clothes tomorrow. alright. there's no drama to relate. just one boyfriend, for the time being, and no expected date of expiration. yes. onward through the night of my life. the lifeguard played that song yesterday. 1 digit ! can i get your number baby?

[22 Jun 2006|10:05pm] [ music | I Burn Today::Frank Black ] this is both who i used to be and who i am supposed to be. same thing? maybe. all i know is, my clothes fit perfectly. i found all my music. i found more music. i'm fucking flying, man, flying. shit, and i'm going to canada. and getting your letters! you keep writing. you miss me. you'll always miss me. but as for me, i'll never miss anyone. not from then, anyway. then was what it is now - stanky polluted water under the steel bridge. and again. i just wasn't cut out for that kind of white water rafting. bleeding disorders, etc. just think about the whole fucking country. and country music, man, country! damn straight, i'm flying. i'm buying that car now, whatever. i'm free and in love with the whites of their eyes. i know how small i am. i'll get smaller too, you'll see. you'll imagine me small, and when you see me, i'm smaller. your fingertips will just burn with the desire to touch my tiny forearms, and so will your balls. but i gave myself up. i watch movies with my dad on saturdays. i gave it up and you're all still starting. i love pissing you off, you know? that's what i run on, oops! i mean, that's what i fly on. this is heat - it's hot out, and this is love. humidity and sweat and dog hairs and open windows and sleeping shirtless. am i tempting you? which one of you? i secretly want you too. but i gave that all up. i'm flying now. i'm where i belong. i'll do better than you at everything, better than all of you. don't you love it when i pull ahead? i'm ahead again. i'm a head again. i have a head again. i have wings. fuck it. can i get your number baby?

[29 May 2006|11:03pm] everything rules. can i get your number baby?

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