Summary: Scuba Doobie-Doo, The Accused Is Entitled, Dead Doll, and how they all tie together. Rated M for language only. GSR.
A MOMENT OF TRUTH
We do not remember days, we remember moments.
Cesare Pavese
Gil Grissom was out of breath and out of patience. He lifted the sledgehammer to his shoulder again and willed his tired arms to smash it into a wall. I'm getting too old for this shit.
His arms hurt, his neck, his head, his back, hell, every muscle and joint in his body felt like the heavy sledgehammer was hitting him, and not the wall, at every stroke. He wondered, idly, if the pain was so severe that he wouldn't know he was having a heart attack, or if he would just keel over ignominiously and expire on the floor. Die. Pass away. Kick the bucket. Go into eternal peace. Perish. Great, that's a real comfort. Try to think of all the synonyms for DFO. Done Fell Over. I do like that one, though. He smiled a little, grimly.
Grissom's coveralls were too thick, and he was wearing too many restrictive clothes underneath. The rough fabric chafed, especially in the sensitive places like his groin and thighs. Rivulets of sweat slid down his body, pooling at every juncture. The sweat dripped in his eyes and stung. His feet were sliding around in his boots, and he didn't look forward to their odorous release from leather and cotton. He felt sticky all over and could smell himself, and it wasn't a nice smell. Not as bad as decomp, nothing was as bad as decomp, but he still stank. How long has it been since I've worked this hard? Since I was a teenager, pounding nails or cutting trees or stacking hay or whatever my grandfather needed, on his ranch? Christ that was thirty-five years ago.
Exhausted. Bone-ass tired. He was used to fatigue, anyone who was a CSI knew about days and nights in brutal succession without sleep, days that you forced yourself to think, to not collapse, to concentrate, to just keep your eyes open and your mouth making intelligible sounds for another hour. When coffee didn't help anymore; it just made your stomach sting with acid. Doubles, triples, and not the baseball kind.. And Grissom's job required physical exertion too, scrambling up hillsides, lugging heavy equipment, walking for hours in searing desert heat. But not like this. This was different. This wasn't fatigue or sleepiness or lethargy or drowsiness. This was I-don't-know-if-I-can-go another-minute tired.
They had been in this apartment complex for hours, he and Warrick and Sara, pounding out blood-spattered and fly-specked walls from room to room, from apartment to filthy apartment, while that bastard, the only one who knew where the body was, watched them with his arms crossed, smirking. He didn't even seem to care that his own place was being smashed up. Fuck, I'd like to pound that smirk off his face with this sledgehammer. But then they wouldn't have the satisfaction of finding the DB and carting that smug bastard off to jail. And I'm sure Brass and the sheriff would frown on him bludgeoning a suspect to death, and then there was all the blood spatter and brains to process–-assuming this idiot had brains, that is. Another grim smile.
Bang, crunch, pull. Bang, crunch, pull. Around him he could see Sara and Warrick enduring their own little bits of hell, working with fading energy to find that body with him. He briefly considered making some excuse and getting the hell out of there, leaving the young folks to finish up. I'm not a quitter. I know, but what are you trying to prove? You're the boss. Yes, but the best bosses don't delegate the hard work. They get in there and do it too, no matter how unpleasant. It's important to set an example. You cannot give up just because you're old and out of shape. Boo hoo, Grissom's subconscious jeered at him.
Look at them. Look how hard they're working too. They do it, because it needs to be done. They do it because you need them to. Warrick and Sara. How I treasure them. They do anything you ask of them, because of our mutual loyalty and trust and because we're a team. We're all dedicated to every aspect of this sometimes crappy job, so we just dig deep and keep going until it's done. How can I let them down? Sure, they'd never say anything, but it would remain forever in their eyes if you just left. Pity. Disappointment. Loss of respect. Contempt, even. Word would get around, like it always did, that the old man wimped out. Left an active crime scene because he was too tired. Too old to do his job anymore.
"One wall down, fifteen to go," Warrick said tiredly.
Old. Damn if he didn't feel every one of his almost fifty years today. Or tonight or whatever it was. Now. He knew he would feel every ache and pain and stiffness his body could dream up tomorrow, and for the next weeks or month. Guess I'll stock up on the Ben-Gay or whatever it is they sell now. Ice packs and handfuls of pain pills and hope that they don't burn a new ulcer in my stomach. Long hot baths. A full body massage. Damn they all sound good right now, but first to strip off all these heavy hot clothes, feel the air on my naked skin, and let cool water pound on every inch of me. Soap and scrub off this sweat and dirt, then warm up the shower water and do it all over again, just because it felt so good. A shower. My kingdom for a shower. It was almost worth it, getting this hot and grimy, for the pleasure, the glorious bliss, of the shower afterwards. Almost.
Warrick was tapping on a wall behind him. He spoke suddenly.
"Hey! I got a hollow section."
Grissom dropped his heavy hammer and rushed over.
Warrick dug out a little trench in the wall with his pocketknife. Dug all around the piece of wall, and popped it open. An ironing board fell out.
"DAMN!" Warrick yelled, making a frustrated sweep with his arm.
That was it. The last straw. The frustration and irritation and every other emotion Grissom felt was overwhelming. Rage, and the cacophony of its attendant demons, was bubbling up. Fury, resentment, blinding pain, red-eyed violence, humiliation, impotence, fear of failure, of defeat, of shame...it was too much, all at once.
I gotta get out of here, if only for a minute.
"Do you think we got the wrong apartment again?" Warrick asked him.
"I don't know. I don't mind being wrong. I just don't think I am this time," Grissom
said bitterly. He shifted, exhausted, into supervisor mode.
"Okay...start on the floorboards. I'm going outside."
CHAPTER TWO–The Touch
Old as I am, for ladies' love unfit,
The power of beauty I remember yet.
John Dryden
Wait. Did he just say he's going outside? Grissom never...Sara was hurrying after him without finishing her thought. Is he sick? Is he having...an attack or something? She didn't even want to consider that, for fear of jinxing him. He closed the sliding glass door after him, automatically, and that thwarted Sara just long enough to let him pace once, up and down, feeling the fresh desert air instantly dry the sweat on his face, and then process that his face was now covered in dry salt. So it wasn't all that much of a relief, but it was better than nothing.
My heart is racing. My chest hurts. Remember Dad, on the couch...I was watching TV...
Grissom grasped his wrist and forced himself to slow his breath and count, glancing at the sweeping second hand.
Sara appeared at his side.
"Are you okay?" she said with anxious concern.
"95." Okay, that came out wrong. I don't have her brilliant mathematical mind, and it is all I can do to count to sixty, slowly, while holding my finger to a little pounding pulse and count the beats. I can't reach to responding properly until that's done.
"Excuse me?" Now she looked baffled.
"Normally my pulse is seventy. When it goes to ninety-five I realize how mad I am. I-I have ten people working around the clock on this thing," he explained testily.
"You're too hard on yourself," Sara said sympathetically.
"No, no. I'm not mad at me. There's a body in there and that guy knows where it is!" Grissom was almost shouting.
"What's your pulse at now?" she said cheekily.
Grissom sighed and pushed his cap up over his forehead. A caress of coolness touched his scalp. She's right. Don't take it out on her.
"You want to take a walk around the block?" Ooh, that was a little forward. Sounded like an invitation. "Get some air?" she added quickly.
Grissom sighed. "No." That sounds lovely, dear, but I can't. I just...can't.
Sara persisted, just a little. "Clear your head..."
"I'm fine."
"Okay." Sara said it in a sad little voice. Why can't you let me help, for once?
Grissom closed his eyes. Her beauty was distracting, as always. Her warmth, her unconditional love, was peeling away at his tattered defenses, though. Calm down, he told himself. She's only trying to help.
Sara reached out and wiped his cheek. Grissom flinched, reflexively.
God, how long has it been since anyone touched you? Did you really think I was going to hit you? Slap you, at this moment, when you're so vulnerable?
Wow, how long has it been since a woman touched me like this? I can't even remember. How sad is that?
Her calm, cool, slightly damp hand lingered. The palm gently flattened on his face, then compassionately stroked it. The move surprised Grissom in its intimacy. He looked at her, silent. His feet seemed to turn to clay. His whole body was stunned into immobility. He couldn't even raise his hands.
Sara was not naturally, physically affectionate. The few times he and Sara had touched had all been initiated by him, by this point in their bewildering relationship. A few handholds, a concerned squeeze of her shoulder, a hand to the small of her back to guide her through a narrow doorway–all initiated by Grissom. She fought hard to stop her hands from reaching out to him, willed her arms to refrain from embracing his big warm body, on oh so many occasions. She was letting him be the gentleman he was, and treasuring his every glancing, shy, hesitant touch that he gave her. So the fact that Sara had been the one to literally reach out and try to comfort him with a simple caress was deeply meaningful. They both knew that. It was a moment of truth in their lives, that Sara could defeat her inhibitions just for a moment, to show him that she cared, that she loved him, always had, always would.
Sara met his eyes with a bare wisp of a smile, her shining eyes looking bravely into his. You don't have to talk. You don't have to do. Just let me be here for you. Let me be with you. You don't have to fight, alone.
She shrugged, attempting to be casual.
"Chalk. From plaster." Her eyes dropped and she turned a bit away. Don't freak. I love you, you big dope. I'm not going anywhere.
"Oh," Grissom said stupidly, utterly surprised. Her loving eyes, her gentle touch, had pole-axed him.
Grissom wiped his cheek and absently glanced at the back of his hand. He looked at Sara, with any number of questions bubbling up in his mouth. Seeing this, then looking away, and knowing he needed time to process, she gracefully gave him an out, his space.
"Better go wash up." Sara struggled to say it lightly, gently, trying to lift the heavy feeling between them, lighten the moment that seemed so profound suddenly. But not belittle it.
Sara smiled tenderly at him and then walked back inside, leaving Grissom behind. He pulled his cap up and tugged it down like a ballplayer, thinking. Grissom followed her inside, and the moment was done.
CHAPTER THREE–The Reaction
Life can only be understood backwards; but it must be lived forwards.
Søren Kierkegaard
He looked so lost, standing there. She had never seen him look so lost before. Never looked lost at all, she suddenly realized. He looked like a boy again, a frustrated, angry boy. And he was big, in every way. A big man, no not fat but bulky, broad-shouldered, with beautifully muscled arms and strong hands.
Big in the way he entered a room, though wholly unconscious of it. If asked, Grissom would instantly say that he was shy and socially awkward, and in some ways he was, with pretty girls (well, one in particular, with the others he could be charming) but in so many other ways he had... presence. Innate authority. People stood up straighter when he walked in the door, looked at his face expectantly, waited for him to speak or to finish speaking, and listened to him with quiet attention. You couldn't help it. Everyone who knew him well, respected him deeply. They felt deep affection for him, pride in their friendship, and a simple joy from having Grissom in their lives. Grissom was big in all of their lives. A king.
And here he was, nearly breaking down in front of her. Grissom, her big, handsome, genius, freak, perfectionist, emotionally unavailable ass of a mentor, boss, friend...and who knows what. Someday. Someday, God willing, he would be more to her. The poster child of masculine emotional impenetrability was suddenly a seven year old boy. And Sara was the only one who could be here for him, at this moment, that he could ever have allowed. His reserves of strength were massive, Sara realized, but even he had limits, and now he was at the end of his tether.
What can I do?
Sara tried a little humor. He was still too pissed off to properly respond. This case, this job, this scene, was too serious to him. He took himself too seriously, always. He had the driest wit she'd ever heard in a man, other than Brass, who was in a class by himself, but...he didn't get the whole range of humor. He wasn't a funny guy. Grissom was a scientist, a born logician and analyst and serious student. Not exactly standup material. So Sara instantly dropped the kidding.
How can I help? What do you need to do?
She gave him her concern by verbalizing it. "Walk around the block, get some air?"
"I'm fine."
Yeah, she knew that bitter apple little phrase. "I'm fine." I'm fine can mean Hell, no, I'm not fine, would you help me out here? Pretend to be a human, for once? Not analyze the situation to death, until there is no situation anymore? I'm fine could mean give me a few minutes, I'll be okay, when the stubbed toe stops throbbing, or I can fish my hat out of the water and you'll stop laughing at me. I'm fine can mean, I can't remember what fine feels like anymore, but it's programmed to pop out of my mouth on occasions such as this. I'm fine can mean I have no idea what to say here. I'm fine can mean just that.
It was in his eyes. It always was. You could see the real man and what he was feeling in those gorgeous blue eyes. He could keep his face almost scarily impassive, but not his eyes. Sara's face was an open book and registered every emotion, despite her efforts. It was just difficult to get close enough to see Grissom's eyes, to read them. There always seemed to be something in the way; a desk, a body, a case, a schedule, or this pesky sexual attraction.
When Grissom said, "I'm fine," this time though, it was a connection. He looked right into her eyes then, and their faces were only a foot apart. His eyes smiled, just a little, though his mouth was pursed in a straight line. Those baby blues said: Thank you. I appreciate your concern. I'm having a major minor breakdown here and on some point I was hoping you'd follow me out here and talk to me. And you did. You always seem to know what I need, when I need it, but sometimes...sometimes you need to be a little more patient... no, just to wait a beat, so my brain can send the signal to my mouth and tongue to formulate a simple response. You are the epitome of patience, Sara. But since you are so naturally skilled verbally, because you're a woman, and a brilliant woman at that...the combination makes a conversation, well, exhausting, sometimes, just trying to keep up. Like keeping up with you, when you're striding along, on those long legs of your. Legs, woman. Legs up to here.
See that? Right there. I can go off on a happy little daydream about your incredible legs, while you're relating something profound and I've missed three of the last four words and it's hopeless. It's all I can do just to not say, "Huh?" like a complete jackass.
So I nod thoughtfully and spring one of my pithy little quotes on ya, and you cock your head to the side like a cocker spaniel puppy and your eyes tighten–and then I see the tiny light bulb go off. He's just Grissom. Grissom being Grissom. And though he's an ass, and a dolt, I love him to pieces. He's my Grissom.
That little light bulb gets a lot of work. I just hope it never burns out.
CHAPTER FOUR–The Humiliation
The first thing we do, let's kill all the lawyers.
Shakespeare, King Henry VI, Part II
(Six months later.)
Sara was on the stand, being grilled. Humiliated and attacked by a first class blonde bitch in high heels and an expensive suit.
Marjorie Westcott was testing her. "You date–you and Hank. You share a subtle communication. Did he move the bra to where you might have wanted it?"
"I didn't want it anywhere. I collect evidence without emotion," Sara said bravely, biting back the smartass replies to that "subtle communication" bullshit. You got some nerve.
'Soundbite' Westcott instantly picked up on the tiny quiver in her voice, the knowledge in Sara's mind that she did, in fact, collect evidence with emotion. Wasn't Grissom always telling her that, to the point of mutual exasperation?
"You do get emotionally involved, though," she continued relentlessly, "with the men on your cases. Hank Peddigrew isn't the first time." Phillip Gerard looked at Westcott smugly, pleased with his pit bull bitch's performance.
"Excuse me?" Sara said, in disbelief and anger.
Westcott looked at some papers in her hands and rattled off obnoxiously, "A murder investigation at the residence of one Charles Renteria. Eyewitness stated he saw you and your supervisor, Gil Grissom, standing alone outside and...you were touching him in a romantic gesture." God she makes it sound so dirty. Makes me sound like I'm a slut. I wasn't stroking the front of his pants, for crissakes. I just touched his cheek!
"I brushed chalk from his face." Sara blinked rapidly, desperate not to break down. The humiliation was painful enough. No way this bully was going to make her cry too!
Westcott sneered, "Is that what they're calling it now?"
The district attorney finally intervened. "Objection, your honor."
Sara tried to explain, her voice wavering. "Drywall dust. We were looking for a body."
Westcott ignored her and spoke to the judge. "It's a fair question, your honor. Just how far will Ms. Sidle go on the evidence to please her boss, Gil Grissom, whether he returns her attentions or not?" Oh that was low. A low, despicable blow. How the fuck do you look at yourself in the mirror? Is this a job? I hate lawyers, but you're the worst I've ever seen. Reducing me, a grown woman, a dedicated professional scientist, to feeling like a cheap floozy, throwing herself at a man. A man that "didn't return her attentions."
Sara was shocked into speechlessness. Nothing could come, that made any sense. That lovely little memory, cheapened into something dirty, something shameful. Damn you.
At least Grissom wasn't here to see this, but I'm sure he'll get the juicy details at some point. The others are out there, looking at me with pity, watching me get run over by this steamroller. Damn her.
Jesus, wasn't it painful enough, earlier today? When Phillip Gerard brought up her "relationship" with Hank, in front of Grissom? His pained, disappointed, pitying expression at her, just before they walked out of the room. It was awful. She'd thought that was the most humiliating moment of her life. But this was worse. Much worse. Not only was she punished for her "relationship" with Hank in front of the only one she ever wanted to be in a relationship with, but now her deep feelings, her heartache for Grissom, were being mocked too. Now she was made to feel that her actions and feelings were not only inappropriate and unprofessional, but stupid and misguided and despicable too. I want to crawl in a hole and die.
Sara had bravely tried to smooth things over with Gris, just before her court date. Knowing that even though he'd be back in his impenetrable shell, she needed to see and talk to him or this would never be addressed or resolved. She'd leaned against the doorjamb where he was working, willing him to look up at her. She rattled off some breaking developments in this freefall of a case, and he'd made appropriate responses with his back to her.
Finally Grissom turned and looked at her. His eyes traveled up and down her body, appraising automatically. She was in her modest off-the-rack court suit, her arms folded across her chest, visibly trying to will herself through this ordeal and then the next.
"You look nice." Thanks a lot. Thanks so much, pal. It looked like you had gas, just to spit out that one tiny compliment.
"Thanks," she said dryly, turning to go.
"Sara." His voice could make her stop in her tracks, still. "Whatever happens in court, it's not because you're seeing this guy." Sara blinked at him. Was there jealousy in the way Grissom said "seeing this guy"? Should that give me hope, that he does have feelings for me?
"You deserve to have a life." Sara rolled her eyes in exasperation.
So much for that! Sure, he probably thought he was being concerned, supportive...being a good supervisor. Grr, I could strangle you! What kind of comfort is that? Have a life? A life without Gil Grissom? What the hell did that mean? Do you want me to just give up? Why do you have to be so damn cryptic?
"Wish me luck," she said coldly.
He didn't even have the courage, the decency, to respond with an automatic "Good luck." No, he was back at work again, not even noticing her presence or absence, and leaving her to walk out and straight through the gates of hell, alone.
Hard to believe that they, the two of them, the emotionally stunted and the emotionally needy, could move past that. Move past that repressed pain and guilt and resentment, that aching hidden attraction, that painful unacknowledged magnetic pull, to a place of blissful love and contentment and acceptance. To finally have a real relationship. An intensely satisfying love affair. A marriage of true minds. But they did. That day was the lowest of the lows. This thing between them could only go onward and upwards, and so it did. Oh how it did.
CHAPTER FIVE–The Memory
When to the sessions of sweet silent thought,
I summon up remembrance of things past
I sigh the lack of many a thing I sought.
William Shakespeare, Sonnet 30
(Three and a half years later.)
Grissom's heart stopped when he picked up the little red toy car and saw the doll of Sara underneath. The right arm extended, a tiny hand flexing and contracting, a grotesque imitation of his vital and loving and breathing and working and living and smiling Sara. His lungs seemed to stop working, his heart forgot how to beat, for an agonizing minute.
"Please Sara. Pick up. Please pick up." Grissom muttered anxiously into his cell phone, hurrying down the hallway. Hearing her voice, her calm words instructing him to Leave a message, made cold sweat trickle down his back. At the other end of the line, Brass heard Sara's phone ring and saw the little screen light up. Grissom.
Grissom is calling Sara, and she's gone.
Christ, I have to get to work. I have to find her. HURRY UP! Grissom wanted to scream, to yell and strike and shake every one of his CSIs and lab techs. Get GOING! FIND Her! His head pounded with the effort to swallow his panic, his body-numbing terror, that he, that they, would be too late. Or that they would never find her. Lost. He was lost, and she was lost, and nothing seemed right anymore.
Grissom knew they were all working their asses off, that nothing was more important than to find Sara and fast...but Jesus they seemed to be moving in slow motion. Like they were underwater. Oh Christ, his beloved Sara's face under the cold, flowing water, those rose-colored lips turning blue, those lungs filling up with liquid and foam, those beautiful eyes emptying and closing forever.
Please God. No.
Warrick and Greg and Nick and Catherine and Brass all looked at him anxiously, in quick scared glances, wanting badly to ask how he was holding up, but they knew better.
Brass was jittery, Greg was terrified, Nick's good heart was breaking, Warrick was angry as hell and had no one to take it out on. Catherine acted strong but he knew better. He knew they all loved Sara too, deeply. Grissom had just, finally, blurted out the truth to them, that Sara was the only woman he'd ever loved, but he cursed himself for not having to balls to tell them when she was still here, by his side.
Grissom wanted to crack, hell, he wanted to sink down in the corner and bawl his eyes out, but he knew he couldn't, he had to stay strong and lead. Be the man. To lead this as if it was just another case. As if. We rescued Nick. We can rescue Sara. He pushed that thought away, knowing that it was a flimsy rationalization, at best.
Grissom paused for just a moment. His frantic search for Sara, the frustrating wait for tiny clues to be processed, the unrelenting need to piece the slim evidence together to find that damn Mustang in that endless unforgiving desert, now, had to wait for just a moment. He stood in the garage, watching the rain pouring down the window outside in eerie light. The water, the rainwater that could be drowning Sara at this very second...GOD! Help her. Don't let her die, God. Please, Lord.
In that moment, he stood and thought about Sara, while the water coursing down the window lit looping, sliding, bands of shade and light play across his face. He didn't think about so many other memories; not the first time their eyes met, not the first time they kissed, nor even the first time they made love...no, what came to his mind's eye as clearly as if he was back there, was Sara's face, so full of tenderness, so full of caring and love, and her slender hand reaching out. Reaching out to stroke his tired face, to soothe and heal his racing heart, his troubled mind.
Her hair was pulled back in a tight bun, which made the angles of her lovely face even more striking. There was an odd light behind her, blurry big balls of pale yellow light, like multiple haloes around her angelic head. If any mortal deserves to have a halo, it's Sara, he thought ruefully. Sara is a saint. Saint Sara. Was there ever a St. Sara? He'd have to ask her sometime. Sometime. Give us time, more time. Her deep brown eyes were troubled, full of concern. For him. Those beautiful brown eyes searched for his own, her sweet head dipping, seeking to see him and find out what was wrong, really wrong, and help. The pale slender hand rose up and touched his face. Her eyes were grave then, and a little sad.
Knowing that she could do no more, though she ached to hold him, squeeze him tight, tell him it would be all right...she stopped. A wavelet of embarrassment washed over her and she dropped her hand to her side. That same right hand was pinned under a ton of metal, uselessly clutching at the wet desert ground, right now.
"Chalk. From plaster." A silly little excuse for a profound moment.
The first time Sara touched him. Really touched him. An innocent little caress of the cheek. A lovely memory.
Why that moment, when there were so many others? Was it because I realized how much I loved you, Sara, then and there? How much you loved me, to think of me only, when you were suffering too? That you showed me your undying devotion, your incredible capacity to forgive, your golden heart, all in that brief interaction? Sara, you allowed yourself to trust and risk and just let go, just for the chance to stroke my cheek, when I needed it so. I needed it so, and didn't realize until you did that. I didn't deserve it. I didn't deserve how good, how true you were to me. I still don't.
God how I love you Sara. Don't leave me. Don't give up. Don't go. There's so much...so much I want to tell you. To ask you. So much to share with you and experience with you. I want to kiss you and make love to you again. I want to see your face, your smile, your eyes full of love. I want to grow old, to let our hair go white, with you, Sara. I want to...I would like to die in your arms. At least I wouldn't have to live and go on without you, then, selfish as that is. We've...I've...come so far...but we've barely begun to live in love. Oh I love you. Oh how much.
It was just a moment. A moment of truth. A moment that changed everything, and led to so much more. But it was the moment he remembered, when all seemed lost.
The moment when her eyes opened, when her hand responded to his, that was the beginning again. They were permitted many more moments together, thanks be. Sara was alive, and found, and Grissom would never be lost again.
THE END
A Note to Readers and Reviewers: I was pretty badly flamed on my last fanfic, Catherine Sees Too Much. It hurt. I would like to remind everyone that these are just stories. Fictional stories about fictional characters within fictional stories created by the talented CSI writers for a TV show. What's that, four steps away from reality? Don't take it all so seriously! If you don't like a story, go read another. Yes, sometimes I go OOC or A/U but isn't that kind of the point? To have fun, stretch the boundaries, make them do and say whatever is in your imagination?
Constructive criticism is fine. Thoughtful discussion, even better. Don't attack, don't get personal, don't insult me. If you think it is funny to write anonymous nasty shit to someone, it isn't and you aren't. Chill out.
One other thing. I call myself ILoveJorja because I do. I don't call myself IHateMarg because I don't. I don't hate anyone.
Thanks for reading.
ILoveJorja