Today, I am thankful that I have friends who will proofread my writing for me, as my brain appears to be slowly devouring itself. Thank you guys, for preventing me from turning in 11 pages of missing prepositions and technical slights. I do NOT have the attention span to do this on my own.

A few weeks ago, I was literally 2 minutes late and my meter expired. A nice pink ticket waved in the breeze, tucked behind my windshield. Those damn meter maids are GOOD.

My immediate instinct is that of defiance and entitlement. I was TWO MINUTES LATE. I would have been there on time if I hadn’t run into my writing teacher in the hall!

“I’m not paying,” I told Henry smugly.

The next day, I was still stewing over it.

We were on our way to a nice leisurely stroll through a haunted house and I was spewing rabid foam from the mouth. “I will fight this to my death! You know what? I’m calling them. The parking brigade, I’m calling them. I’m telling them I was late to the meter because I was HAVING A MISCARRIAGE.”

“You can’t do that,” Henry said calmly, keeping his eyes on the road.

I made an urgent call to Christina. “Here’s a better idea,” she began, after suffering through my petulant spiel. “You could, I don’t know, pay the sixteen dollars.”

Surrender? Absolutely not.

Then I forgot about it. It’s somewhere in my purse. But my purse is big. Like Mary Poppin’s tapestry bag big.

Today, I got a bill in the mail. With the accumulated late fees, my new fine is $39. I flew into a righteous rage.

“Just pay it, please!” Henry yelled; there was no amusement in his face.

Oh, I paid it alright. But not the late fees. And I furiously scribbled out a note in a serial killer-esque scrawl that said “I am SO SORRY that one of your people was forced to take the time out of their day to print out a ticket, while I was too busy having a miscarriage to make it to the meter in time. You will get the sixteen dollars from me, and not a penny more.”

Envelope sealed and stamped.

Henry shook his head and said, “Why do you always have to make things worse? Your angry letters never get you anywhere.” (Perhaps one day jail, though.

)

Fucking authority.

Today marks the first time ever that I submitted something to a literary magazine and I feel vomitous. I didn’t do it so much to get published, because I have realistic expectations, but more to get myself over this fear so that maybe in the future I can do it again.

I don’t know how confident I am about the essays I submitted, but I like the bio I wrote!

Erin Kelly is a student and a full-time employee of both a data processing company and her maniacal toddler.> She’s not afraid of turning 30; has a penchant for pumpkin pie Blizzards and collecting art that scares her; and has celebrated Christmas in a cemetery, complete with convenience store egg nog and Moon Pies. At least once a day, she hears the phrase, “Oh honestly, Erin.”

Ha-ha.

Janna said she wants to celebrate the fact that I finally traded in my diaper for training pants.

Last year, I bought Riley’s first Halloween costume during the peak of a summer scorch fest. People thought I was crazy, but I wanted to be prepared. He was an ice cream cone, and it rained. Luckily, he was only six months old then and had no clue he was missing anything anyway.

This year, though, I started sending myself mental memos in July. “Don’t forget to start thinking about Riley’s Halloween costume” they’d say, with the ‘Don’t’ underlined three times in an urgent red. Unfortunately, those memos got buried under the “Write that damn essay!” and “Pay the fucking gas bill, asshole!” memos.

Before I knew it, is was October. My friend Amelia gave me the ingenious idea of dressing him as Charlie Brown. It was perfect what with his hair-challenged pate and chubby cheeks, and it would be a snap to pull off. All I had to do was buy a yellow t-shirt and toss some black felt and a needle in Henry’s lap and tell him to get crackin’.

It’s just a yellow t-shirt, it won’t be hard to find. I can wait until the last minute.

Oh hindsight, you sick son of a bitch.

So, instead we used Merry’s idea: bearded him up, slapped a fedora on his head and shifted nervously when people asked what he was supposed to be. I think we were going for old fashioned pimp, but by the end of night we accepted everyone else’s interpretation that he was the “most cutest hobo.”

I spent a lot of energy these past few days trying to teach Riley how to say trick-or-treat, employing a melange of accents hoping that one would tickle his linguistic fancy and make him think, “Wow, now I really need to pump up my ambition and learn this totally awesome phrase.” Never mind the fact that the consequence of that demand is a pillowsack full of cavities, say it because it sounds cool with a Barbarian/Portugese accent hybrid.

On the way to my grandma’s (for photo-op purposes), Henry stopped at RiteAid to get batteries for the camera, but when he got back in the car, he extracted a king sized Nestle’s Crunch.

“Um…you do realize that Chooch is trick-or-treating tonight, right? So in an hour, this orange pumpkin here is going to turn into a receptacle overflowing with delightful candybars that will kick the ass of your plain old Nestle’s Crunch.” Henry is so frivolous sometimes.

After visiting my grandma, we drove over to the street my aunt Susie lives on, hoping to park in her driveway and ransack her neighbors since we were already in the area. (And trick-or-treating in the suburbs is more appealing that the city.) Now, I haven’t spoken with Susie in about three years. No real reason, other than we’ve never been very close and she’s embroiled in a perpetual feud with her older sister, Sharon. I’m sure most everyone has fucked up families bogged down with in-fighting and different members boycotting holidays each year, but mine is pretty bizarre. I’d say they’re a few degrees worse than “Grey Gardens” but not quite “The Devil’s Rejects.” I mean, my mother lives two houses down from my grandmother, but for the second year in a row skipped out on coming over to see her grandson in all his costumed glory. A little disheartening to say the least.

Sharon told us to go right ahead and park in Susie’s driveway. “She’s never home anyway!” she laughed, but it was a strained laugh, the laugh someone emits when they’re thinking about the person they want to kill.

Sharon and Susie have been fighting for as long as I can remember. Holidays were always filled with the merry cheer of one of them running off to their bedroom and slamming the door behind them. I don’t know why they hate each other so much. Jealousy? But I know that Sharon recently said she would murder her if she ever saw her on the street. So when she said she would call Susie and let her know we were parking in her driveway, I sort of doubted it.

When we pulled into Susie’s driveway, she was outside with one of her dogs. She stood in the backyard and squinted as we emerged from the car. She looked nervous and afraid. I said hello and she murmured an unsure salutory retaliation. It wasn’t until she got closer that she realized it was me, the niece she hadn’t seen in three years.

“Oh!” she laughed, placing her hand on her chest. “I was afraid you were a trick-or-treater. I’m not ready yet!” I explained to her that we were, in fact, trick-or-treating and would it be OK if we parked there. She said it was no problem, but then she gave me a judgemental once-over.

“Aren’t you a little…not dressed up…to be trick-or-treating?”

“I’m not going! We’re taking him!” I laughed, nodding at Chooch, who was being undetained from the backseat. Susie laughed, realizing her idiocy. Then came the awkward moment of her meeting her great-nephew for the first time. Her voice took on a shrill lilt as she said all the things she thought a baby would want to hear. Chooch was more interested in her dog.

As we walked down her driveway to embark on a night of candy-collecting, Henry whipsered, “She’s not a kid person, is she? I could tell because she talked to Chooch the same way you talk to other kids.”

I always thought that Susie was my real mother. It makes sense when you think about it: we both come packing the same wicked temper, we’re both egotistical assholes, we’re both man-eaters with a penchant for art and tennis. She was a freshman at Kent when I was born. My theory was that she got knocked up, my grandma had a nuclear-level meltdown (“What will the neighbors say?!”), and I was pawned off on the woman I’ve called Mom for the past twenty-eight years.

(OK, that’s a lie: I call her Val.)

I recently divulged this to my grandma and she laughed (nervously, I might add) and said, “Oh honestly, Erin.”

If Susie really is my mom, I’m pissed that I didn’t inherit her sickeningly quick metabolism (she’s a size 0!).

Chooch really seemed to enjoy trick-or-treating. Mainly because he finally got his wish of walking through the yards of strangers (he never wants to stay on the sidewalk when we go on jaunts around our ‘hood) and lots of older women fawned over him. He stole the show, which really seemed to irritate two older boys who scowled at him every time we wound up on the same stoop as them.Sorry you look so average in your non-descript K-Mart masks, you little assholes. Go cry to mommy.

I really hate kids.

I escorted Chooch to two or three houses, and then switched with Henry because it was too much work and people wanted to talk to me which makes me feel sick. We skipped all the houses that required us to walk up steps or hills.

We canvassed two streets before calling it a night. Chooch seemed to enjoy himself and I was pleased to see a generous allottment of Reese’s peanut butter cups in his little pumpkin carrier. No orange drink, though.

I have one last paper to write for my Creative Non-fiction class and it’s the memoir. This is tough because I feel like it’s really easy to churn out a bunch of sentences strung together, forming one big feculent cliche. And evading that is something I’m not sure I’m able to accomplish.

So instead of writing about some terrible tragedy that served as a monolithic turning point in my life, I’m taking the light-hearted route and writing about a cherished memory that consists of:

1. One weekend in Philly with a girl I only knew for 2 days

2. A gothic chatroom

3. Having an eyebrow ring surgically removed

4. This picture:

This guy made me feel so uncomfortable. Can you tell?

I’m excited to write it because this is a story that’s never seen the light outside of my vacation journal.

Halloween revelry coming soon!

 Our department handed out paper Halloween treat bags for everyone to prop on their desks like emaciated orphans begging to have their bellies engorged by a delicious sugary bounty.

Us night-shifters brought our candy in tonight so that the day shift cry babies won’t throw fits when we’re not here to cap off their bags. I brought in two selections: a bag of Jolly Rancher Creepy Pops and a selection of Movie Time mini boxes (Junior Mints, et. al.).

I followed my boss Kim around because there are some day shifters whose seat locales I’m unaware of, or I flat out don’t know since they work on different projects and are not a part of our monthly meetings.

Each bright and festive bag (rumor has it that mine is the nicest) received one each of my Halloween treats until I made it back to the night shift area and realized that basic arithmatic had duped me once again: I only had enough to give my nocturnal compatriots one delicious confection.

Taking heed the fact that they would be none the wiser anyway, I smiled broadly as I doled out a lolly to Lindsay, gently tucked a box of Dots in Bob’s bag, and visciously chucked a sucker at Collin’s face while Kim looked on. I’m lucky to have such an ambivalent boss, because Lord knows my ears are no virgins to the “Keep your hands to yourself” credo; the first time (by an authority figure, anyway) was after I pushed Sean Murphy over a hill in Kindergarten.

On my way back to my desk, guilt gnawed at my stomach lining. I told Kim my dilemma. “And some of those day shift people, I barely know!” so Kim stuffed me under her wing and stole back three pieces of my candy for me to give the more deserving. Kim would point to various desks and I would say, “Oh yeah, steal it back. Fuck that stranger!”

When I revisited Collin’s area to pass out the purloined candy, he instinctively ducked. Fooling him, I instead set a box of Tootsie mini chews upon his opened palm. As I walked away, he called out, “Hey Erin, check your hoodie.” Apparently in Collin’s world, stuffing a mini Snickers in my hood instead of my treat bag is the obvious way to win the candy-distributing war. I was incredulous that something so devious had gotten past me.

“Magic,” he answered smugly, after I prodded him.

So now here we sit, coating our gullets with a cocktail of partially hydrogenated vegetable oil, dextrose, sugar and all of their piquant partners in diabetic shock. I hope the sugar coma is strong enough to keep Eleanore sated; she’s in such a bitter mood tonight and keeps ranting on the phone about living in a racist society.

There is this girl that I absolutely abhor. She attempted to sabotage Henry’s relationship with his sons a few years ago, simply because she hates me. Yes, she hates me, yet she goes after Henry’s jugular.

We used to be friends many, many years ago. Even then, she was a pathetic sack of wasted flesh, constantly stirring up stews of bad feelings and lies. I cut her out of my life six years ago, yet she still rears her ugly, fat, manly head every now and then.

Like last spring, when she and Henry’s ex (her current BFF, oooh what a shocking coincidence) stalked my house, writing childish jibberish on my sidewalk and blowing car horns.

Had me shaking in my boots, I’ll tell you.

I have yet to actually have a face-to-face encounter with this sickening broad. However, today Henry’s sister, who used to be acquainted with this bitch years ago, had to get blood drawn and it just so happens that she was sent to the clinic where this broad is a phlebotomist.

Henry’s sister said that this girl immediately recognized her and left her sitting in the waiting room for a long time.

"Did Kelly cuss her out?" I asked Henry, salivating at the thought that someone finally had a chance to pull back this bitch’s hanging curtains of fat and rip her a new asshole.

"No, she said hello and then got her blood drawn. She said she didn’t want her to get pissed off and use a rusty needle. Ha-ha."

Ha-ha? No ha-ha! I was pissed! I would have been like, "Hey cunt, what the fuck is up with what you did to my brother?" I’d have fucking yelled in her fat fucking face and then taken my vein somewhere else.

But no, Kelly instead panders to this sociopath’s ego and bids her a friendly hello and then rolls up her sleeve. Crazy Asshole gets off scot-free once again! That bitch needs a heaping spoonful of ego-loss.

Does no one understand "loyalty" anymore?

In between haunted houses on Saturday night, Christina and I stopped at a gas station to get beverage and also so that Henry could give us directions via my cell phone without me careening over any cliffs. (It gets dark out on them thar country roads!) My top right molar had kind of felt a little sore, so because I’m a sadist, I bought a cup of blueberry crumble cappuccino (it was divine, too) and swished it around my kind of sore area. Of course, when the hot liquid found its way into my tooth’s tiny hole, the entire right side of my mouth sizzled in warm pain. Good pain. John Cougar Mellancamp’s “hurts so good” pain. Getting fucked with a crucifix held by John Holmes in a nun’s habit kind of pain.

Back at home that night, we watched “The Exorcist 2” and Henry made me a mug of hot chocolate. It could have been a mug of Draino for all I cared, so long as it was piping hot. I took a greedy swig and tilted my head back, allowing the scalding milk to arouse my molar. An orgasm-warm reward coursed through my jaw. My shoulders instinctively did the pain dance all the way up to my ears. I may have howled a little.

“Oh my God, would you stop that?” Christina yelled in disgust as my hand flew to my chin to wipe away escaping milk, which found an opening after I sucked in a quivering breath of delirious agony. Sweet relief, like that feeling of complete pleasure experience after you allow your bladder to explode upon the pot after a day of holding in your urine during a brutal God-seeking pilgrimage through the Sahara.

A small area of my gums was pulsing and tingling. I was in Heaven…if Heaven was holding a Fetish Ball.

Before bed, I brushed and flossed aggressively, until it occurred to me that I had crossed the line. My mouth was shrieking the safety word, and I had ignored it. My cheek felt swollen, my gums felt a’flare.

I woke up Sunday morning to the discovery of white and puffy gums surrounding the tortured molar. I carried around a vial of Anbesol all day, like it was a flask of bourbon (which would have been preferable).

Here at work, I’m rinsing every so often with hot tea, because evidently I’m a glutton for punishment who hasn’t learned by now the term “exacerbate.” Right now, I have a strong desire to shove a lighter back there, or a blow torch, and then white knuckle the edge of my desk in abusive ecstasy. I have a dentist appointment next week, but something tells me I’m not going to make it. What is that something….Oh that’s right — it’s my flaming gums.

I painted this last night, inspired by the memory of that damn blue light. It’s called My Lips Bleed Your Kiss and it’s painted over top of a beeswax-coated canvas board. I’m really happy with it. Damn all this goth music!

Henry’s in the kitchen, carving pumpkins. In passing, I asked him if acting like a produce surgeon is as easy as it looks.”

It’s not so bad,” he answered thoughtfully. “Why, haven’t you ever carved one before?”

I laughed, obnoxiously. “Uh, no. I had people to do that shit for me.”

Henry rolled his eyes and mumbled something about me being pathetic. He’s like one of those talking dolls that come programmed with five cliched sayings that wear out after the tenth string-pull.

I have to go. My child is eating a piece of cheese that appears to be wearing a toupee.

Before Christina left to go back home to Cincinnati, we all went to Max and Erma’s for a very expensive lunch. (Seriously, where do they get off having such high prices when their food really isn’t very outstanding?

Although I’d pay a pretty penny for their banana cream pie, just don’t tell them that.

I won the second bet of the day when Christina and Henry postulated about the price of the brunch buffet, agreeing that it was probably $11.

“That seems like a reasonable price,” Christina paired with a nod.

“No, I bet it’s more than that. $11 seems too low.”

Henry and Christina scoffed and said that I was a stupid idiot and anything more than $11 would be ridiculous and that college sure wasn’t honing my intelligence very much.

When the waitress, a very unpersonable young broad with teeth that overtook her face and an uncanny knack for appearing every single time I was talking shit on her, informed us that it was actually $13.99, I rejoiced.

I won the other bet earlier today when Henry’s son Blake devoted a block of about three hours to blowing up his father’s cell. After he called for the fifth time at 11:20, I proposed to Christina that we place bets on the next obsessive phone call. Christina guessed 11:50, but I wanted to believe that Blake had a little more will power than that, so I placed a very calculated and thoroughly thought-out guess of 11:55. At exactly 11:55, Henry’s cell erupted in a series of obnoxious brrrriiinnngs — I made Blake’s ring tone the most boring and standard one that came on Henry’s cell because I’m very mature like that — and I celebrated by thrusting my fists in Christina’s face. “Damn, too bad we didn’t bet for money,” I whined after the fact, so Christina said she’d pretend like we bet for a CD. Now I get a CD, hooray.

Back at lunch, Chooch flirted with the women in a booth behind him. Before they left, they crowded around him and the older one — the mouthpiece of the two — asked for our permission to touch his head.

People are so weird when it comes to babies. Me? I’m like our waitress. When Chooch offered her his straw, she very nervously, and in a voice bogged down with faux-cheer, said, “Um, yeah, that’s nice! That’s yours, you can have that.

” I have a very similar approach to children. My head is flushed with internal dialogue.  “Shit, it’s talking to me. What do I do now?” The product that usually escapes from my mouth is something strained and forced, like, “Oh. Wow. How nice. Yay kids.”

I’m OK with my own kid, of course. We exchange discourse on a wide variety of topics, like shit and monsters and Satan and Hell and Jeffrey Dahmer. We whisper about Henry behind his back; things like “Daddy is a fag” and “Daddy sucks” and “That guy over there is probably a better dad than Daddy” even when it’s some bum sifting through a dumpster, wearing pink bunny slippers.

What I’m trying to say is that my son and I have some really great, adult-oriented convos.

I’ve been fighting with a new neighbor over parking courtesy. I realize it’s a trivial thing to risk stroking over, but I have pent up anger and aggression and the situation presented itself as the perfect way to let it all out. She and I had a very strained discussion about it last Sunday, but I sort of kept my cool, as I was holding the hand of my toddler and he sees me ranting and raving enough as it is.

The gist of it is that the landlord told her that the center space is hers, but I’ve been parking in that space for eight years. Typically, when I come home from work and wherever, she’s in that space so I have no choice but to park in  the one next to her.

This morning, when I was leaving for school, she was also in her car, about to leave. However, I gunned it and shot out of the driveway before she had a chance to blink, totally cutting her off. Dumb fucking bitch.

Then I stewed about it all during my Calculus class.

When I came home, she was still gone, so I shot down the driveway into my old space.

A few minutes ago, she came a’knocking. Henry answered the door, but she requested to speak to me personally. I joined her on the porch, after Christina gave me a sad glance, silently pleading with me to be nice.

And I was nice. Sort of. Through gritted teeth. We hashed out our differences — I told her I wasn’t happy with the way she came at me last week without even introducing herself, and she countered with the fact that when she first saw me a few weeks ago, I was slamming my front door and yelling about how I always get screwed with parking. ”

I mean, I saw that and thought ‘A-ight, she’s pissed off at someone, maybe me.’ Of course I’m not going to come up to and say ‘Hello, my name…’ at that point.

Henry and Christina were listening to the whole thing from inside, and when I came back in later, Henry said, “You DO have an attitude, you know” and Christina quickly echoed his sentiment. Then they talked about how I get so unnecessarily angry over nothing, simply because I crave tension and conflict. I know, and then I wonder why every muscle in my being is taut enough to snap.

Anyway, the neighbor explained to me that the only reason she’s been making a big deal about wanting to park in the middle is because the landlord has been drilling it into her head. Apparently, he keeps dumping all these rules on her without telling the rest of us (she said he also told her that none of us are allowed to park on the road, but we all do it because she’s the only one he told), and by doing so, he’s effectively pitted us all against each other. Realizing that it’s the landlord on which I should be directing my hostility (I know where I’ll be on Monday), she and I started over by going through friendly motions of introducing ourselves.

Her name is Toya, and I guess she’s not too bad. I still hate Ruth though, who hasn’t been talking to me for a few weeks now, god only knows why. Fucking fake nurse.

From now on, I’ll be parking my car on the street, to push my landlord’s buttons.

I broke my blog. Barely had it for four days and I done went and broked it right down last night. This morning, Henry asked, “I was going to work on making your blog ‘pretty’ but I can’t log in. WTF did you do?”

The usual: clicked radio buttons next to descriptions I didn’t understand/fully read.

Papa H righted it just now which is fantastic because I have a lot I want to say. But I can’t promise it’s important.

I’m kind of experiencing curious pangs of withdrawal from LiveJournal.
I was talking to a co-worker, Bill, about it yesterday and he noted that I looked like I was coming down off heroin. I guess after six years (minus the two months I went on strike during the Great Nervous Breakdown of 2005) of diligent LJ patronage, I can’t really expect to quit cold turkey, no warning, and not experience some degree of shakes.

But now I don’t have to worry about stupid shit, like: Is this going to screw up everyone’s friends page? Am I going to annoy people if I post twice in one day? Will anyone get offended?

I just want to write. I don’t care about comments. I don’t care if it’s not funny. I don’t care if I post five times in one day. And most of all, I don’t care who doesn’t like it.

You know what’s always bothered me? The lack of support and interest shown by most of my “real life” friends. Aside from Janna, no one who has known me from back in the day of high school or earlier reads my blogs. Keri used to (and still does I’m sure, but with motives not of a friendly nature) but I think her Blue Collar Comedy-lovin’ mind was too rednecked to grasp a lot of what she read. Brian was incredulous when I told him I decided to go back to school for English writing.

“But why?” he laughed. “You don’t write!”

Christy, a girl I’ve known since four years after birth, told me she didn’t “get” what I was writing about (she’s a lawyer) and that she didn’t understand why roasting my friends was funny. But then, she’s a fan of That Really Famous Blogger and if you say anything bad about her, she’ll get very upset.

“But she’s so prolific and she’s a Really Great Writer!”

It’s unnerving, and I think I got to the point where I let assholes like them and random Internet personas deter me and knock me down, and you know what? That wasn’t who I used to be! I used to be better than that and stronger than that, and that’s what I’m going to be again, with this fresh start.

Fuck all y’all haters.

A few weeks ago, I was seiged by some foreign and atypical desire to participate in holiday work activities, so I signed up for this year’s Secret Santa (except some half-Jewish dude got all riled up so they’re now calling it the Holiday Giftbag). I figure it will look good on my “Please let me into Heaven” resume, and also because I’m a spoiled bitch who loves getting gifts. On my info sheet, I listed all the pertinents: fifteen of my favorite music genres and my dislike of meat and things with flowers on them. For favorite candy, I put “the delicious kinds.” I hope whoever chose me knows to decipher that as, “I am holding a box of fine confections of the cacao persuasion. Now I ask myself, ‘Are these of a quality high enough for even the Queen of England herself to pop between her dry matronly lips?'” In other words, please don’t give me a bag of M&Ms.

I was hoping that I could really change the life of whomever I drew from the lot. Maybe gift them with an original Somnambulant piece of fine, museum-quality art or a trinket to store poison or cocaine. Or poisonous cocaine.

But today, I picked Letisha (after I picked myself, durr). Letisha works daylight and sits two workstations down from me. She has the distinction of being the loudest, skilled gum popper I’ve encountered this side of the high school bleachers and I have a strong hunch that she’d make a fantastic lesbian. According to her fact sheet, she does not like bats or clownes (sic), but has a love affair with r&b and all of its lusty subgenres (especially those that are “smooth’), which she might possibly listen to with her teddy bear collection while lighting melon-scented candles.

At the end, she listed three things she’d like to receive, so I know that if I bought her a “dvd by Tyler Perry” or a picture frame (hello, flea market) she would be a satisfied customer of the Erin Holiday Store. I’m not sure she would be terribly pleased with my original art or The Cure’s Greatest Hits, but I know that food containing the possibility of peanut traces would be alright, because she has no food allergies.

I’m really thankful for this list, because now I feel like I know her a lot better. She went from an aggro gum-smacking, fake-laughing weave-wearer to a Snickers-eating low-brow comedy watching aggro gum-smacking, fake-laughing weave-wearer. I was really quite judgemental of her before this.

At least I know what I won’t be getting her. Gum.

I have no idea what I’m doing.

This is a big pile of shit.

Giant shit.

Shit from a giant.

With hemmorhoids.