The Story of Us

THE STORY OF US BY: Julien

This story is 100% fictional and is by no means depictive of the life of any person, place or thing. It contains sexual activities between males and should only be read if it is legal to do so in your area. Read at your own risk and enjoy. Comments are welcomed and would be very much appreciated. ENJOY!

I would like to thank my editor Frank for doing such a great job on editing - thanks a lot, man...

TWO MONTHS LATER....

BOBBY

I held onto the parallel bars as if my life depended on it, and ever so slowly, I hoisted myself up. It hurt like hell to have to put all my body weight onto my arms, but it was what I had to do if I didn't want to end up being a cripple for the rest of my life. IT WAS SLIM. That's what the doctor had told me, point blank. He didn't bullshit me about my status after the shooting and he didn't bullshit me about what to expect in terms of my recovery.

"It doesn't look good, Bobby, but that doesn't mean you shouldn't give it your all in Physical Therapy. If we can get your muscle strength back, then just maybe in a year or two, you may be able to have some form of mobility with your legs."

That's exactly how he put it. I appreciated his straightforwardness about the whole process, but that didn't make it any easier for me to deal with it. It didn't change the fact, that because of that muthafucker, I was gonna be in a wheelchair, probably for the rest of my life. I probably should have been grateful that I was even alive after the pounding I took from the bullets, but I wasn't. I mean, what life would I have now? I didn't have my career, I didn't have use of my legs, and above all, I was of no use to anybody, especially Richie. I couldn't even function as a man anymore. I know because I tried once or twice since coming home to get an erection but to no avail, it was a no show and all Richie could do was give me a stretched smile and say, "It's gonna be alright, babe." If course I knew he was being polite. But I pretended that everything was fine, especially me, and went about my therapy sessions like I gave a fuck, but truth be told, it didn't matter none to me.

"You're doing great, Bobby, just hold on a little bit longer, just a few minute more."

The voice of Charlene, my physical therapist, brought me back to the present and I let her words wash over me as did the sweat that was beginning to cascade down my back, as if I had just taken a shower.

"You're doing good, Bobby, you're doing good. Now, how about we take five." With that, she walked up to me, encircled my waist and gently helped me into the waiting wheelchair that had been kept in close proximity to where we were working. I eased into it with a sickening thud and let out a deep breath.

"Tired?" she asked, handing me a towel.

"Yeah, I think I've had enough for the day," I stated, taking it from her and wiping my face with it. We had been at it for almost an hour and a half and I felt as if I was ready to pass out. Not only from the strenuous exercises, but also from not having had breakfast this morning. Of course I had told her I had, just to keep her off my back, and I had told Richie the same thing this morning when he had asked.

"What did you have?" He had asked, eyeing me suspiciously from across the room. He seemed to be doing a lot of that lately, standing across the room, away from me, unconsciously distancing himself from me and the situation. After all, he hadn't signed up to be taking care of a cripple.

"Wheaties and some toast." I had stated.

"Is that it? You know you need more than that Bobby. Let me make you some eggs and bacon."

I had stopped him from even making a move towards the stove.

"I told you, I already ate," I had said, a little too hotly.

"Then where's the bowl? Where's the spoon?" he challenged, hands folded across his chest.

"I washed it."

"The sink's dry."

I had had enough of him quizzing me like he had the right, like he had any idea what I was going through, and I told him so. "Just back the FUCK off, Richie! I said I ate! And I don't need for you to be running all up behind me like I'm your fucking kid; I can take care of myself!"

"Can you?" he had retorted, only to look at me in regret seconds later.

"Bobby, babe, I'm sorry..." he had started to say, and made a move towards me.

I had panicked though, and not wanting him to touch me, I tried to wheel myself backwards and had forget all about the three stair landing that had never bothered me in the past. I fell over in the chair and narrowly missed hitting my head on the side of a wall. All I remember was hearing him shout my name and run over to help me, pulling the heavy chair away from me and making an attempt to help me up.

"Get the fuck off me!" I had screamed, managing to startle him and myself. I had been a silent grump up until this moment, but now, things had managed to bubble to the surface, and come out in the nastiest way possible.

"Just don't fucking touch me, alright! I can fucking take care of myself." And he had no choice but to stand by silently and watch me struggle for almost fifteen minutes to get the chair upright, and my body into it, before finally wheeling myself into our bedroom and closing the door behind me. I thought he would have followed and couldn't decide if I was grateful or disappointed when he didn't. When it was time to go to the hospital to see Charlene, he knocked on the door and told me that he was going to start the van and that he would meet me outside. I had heard the pain in his voice when he said it, but I did nothing but sit and listen. We had driven in practical silence all the way over here, and when Charlene asked him if he was staying, he declined, saying that he had something else to do today. I had felt bad about what had happened, but not bad enough to beg him to stay, not bad enough to put aside my own feelings, and try to understand a fraction of what he must have been going through.

I shook all thoughts of him and this morning out of my head just in time to hear Charlene's question.

"So, is Richie meeting us in here, or should we go outside and wait for him?"

We hadn't discussed whether or not he would be coming back for me, even though most often than not, he did.

"Naw, I think I'm gonna take a van back to my place."

"Ok, well let me call access-a-ride and see how long it'll take them to get here. I'll be back soon." And with that, she walked out of the therapy room leaving me alone with my thoughts. The thing was, though, I didn't have any thoughts, any feelings, any thing that I wanted the time to think about. If anything, I wanted to keep busy, anything to keep my mind off of what was happening in my life right at that moment. To keep my mind off the fact that my relationship was once again heading for the dumps, to keep my mind off the fact that my life was never going to be the same, and most importantly, to keep my mind off the fact that deep down inside, I actually wished that Ernie's bullet had cut me down, wished that I had died, wished that things had ended differently.

Once again, Charlene's voice broke me out of thought.

"Ok Hun, they're here. You did good today." The sincerity in her voice somehow managed to make me feel a little bit better.

"Thanks. I'll see you on Thursday," I responded, wheeling past her and down the hall, when suddenly, she called out to me,

"Ok, and Hun..." I turned around in my chair and waited for her response.

"Try and relax. Your muscles are too tense."

I didn't respond, instead, I just gave her my most sincere smile and continued on my way towards the hospital exit.

"So how was your therapy session today?" Lawrence asked, as he reached over to the side table for his beer.

"It was alright, not much happening," I responded, my voice betraying my true feelings about the sessions.

"Oh. Well, it's only been two months Bobby, give it time," he said, his eyes holding mind.

"Time ain't gonna help me, Lawrence. You heard what the doc had to say. This shit might be permanent."

"Doctors don't know everything."

"I used to think the same thing, but sitting in this damn chair day after day has finally cured me of that thought. I ain't never getting out of this man, I just know it, I feel it."

"Well, with that attitude, you'll be right. You gotta think positive, Bobby, you gotta think positive."

I had to laugh.

"All the positive thinking in the world ain't gonna get me walking again, man. I've tried that. For the past two months, I've been trying to tell myself that things will get better, that it'll improve, but I'm still a fucking cripple, and I'm still in this fucking chair." The bitterness in my voice was unmistakable, and it was no surprise to me to hear the turn that Lawrence's next words took.

"You know something, if I wasn't feeling sorry for your ass, I would have slapped the shit out of you, and hopefully got some sense into you. This bullshit has got to stop, Bobby. What you're doing to yourself is not gonna do a damn thing for you except keep you locked in this funk, and in this house. I mean, when was the last time you left your cage to go out somewhere besides the therapist or the doctor's office?"

I didn't respond to his probe, nor did I think that I was expected to.

"And what about your friends? If I didn't drag my ass over here and practically break in, I wouldn't have gotten past the bulldog downstairs that you call a security guard. We love you man. All of us at the record company, and we miss the old Bobby, the one that used to fuck around with us all the time, the one that used to make us smile, the one that was true to himself."

"Well, that Bobby is as good as dead, Lawrence, or didn't you hear. He got shot a few months ago by some fuckup who used to work for him. So it might do you some good to pass on that message to everyone over at the record company, so that they can stop filling my machine with all that emotional bullshit." I had expected him to continue with his tirade but he didn't. Instead, he reached over and patted my shoulder.

"Time will heal all wounds, Bobby. You just have to be willing." And with that, he stood up and leaned into me, putting his arms around me. I remained stiff though, not wanting to go there with him.

"We're having a little CD release party for one of our new artist, and we're all hoping you'll come."

I knew that I wasn't up, yet, to seeing anyone or being social in any way, shape or form, but I also knew Lawrence could take it to the ninth degree, and I didn't need him on my back right now, so I lied, and told him that I'd seriously think about it.

"Good, and bring Richie with you. I haven't seen him in a while."

"I'll have to ask him."

"You do that, Bobby. And please, keep in touch. Ok? We want to know what's happening in your life." Once again, that sincerity was present in his voice.

"Ok, man, I will, but right now, I gotta get some rest. I'm real tired from therapy this morning." It wasn't exactly a lie, for I was tired, but I knew I wasn't gonna get no sleep anytime soon. I never did after a session.

"Ok, man, so I'm gonna go, but I'll give you a call later in the week."

"Cool," I stated and with that, we bumped fists and I led him to the door. Just as he reached for the knob, it swung open, and in walked Richie with two bags of groceries in each hand. When he saw Lawrence, he exchanged an exasperated look and the words,

"How's it hanging man?"

"I'm good, Richie, how've you been?"

"Ah...I'm ok, Lawrence, been busy, you know."

Lawrence looked back at me on the sly and said, "I know. We miss you working with us man. When can we expect you back?"

This time it was Richie who cast a glance my way, something that unnerved me to no end.

"I don't know. We'll have to wait and see. Bobby needs me, you know."

"Yeah, I know."

I found myself hating the fact that they could stand there and talk about me like I wasn't even there.

"Well, I should get going. You ok with those bags?"

"Yeah, I'm fine."

"It was nice seeing you, Richie, don't be a stranger now," and then turning to me he said, "We'll talk later man."

"Ok," I responded, and watched as Lawrence walked out, closing the door behind him. I let out a sigh relief at his departure, and made my way back over to the living room.

For a few moments, I managed to convince myself that I was alone, but then I heard a loud crash, and turned to see that Richie had dropped one of the bags on the ground.

"Shit!" he called out, placing the other three on the floor, and quickly taking the contents out of the dropped bag, and placing them to the side. My eyes were on him but he not once turned to look my way, and when he finally emptied the bag, he walked over to the garbage, discarded the bag and its broken contents, and walked towards the kitchen sink.

"Did you get my meds?" The question seemed to scathe my lips as soon as I said it, but I wasn't one to wonder, 'what if', and I patiently waited for his response. After about a minute of virtual silence, I was about to speak again, but then he spoke.

"I was busy with the groceries." Even though I knew he probably meant nothing by it, I just couldn't resist the urge to get on his case.

"You were busy with the groceries. You were busy with groceries. And I'm sure that there was no possible way for you to stop by the pharmacy and pick up my meds. What's the fucking point of you being here, Richie?"

He stopped what he was doing and looked up at me, eyes wide.

"I guess my main purpose here is to be your maid now, isn't it? That's all I seem to be doing around here lately. I cook, I clean, I shop, I get your meds, I make sure everything works out for you. YOU! It's all about you, Bobby, always. I'm sorry about what happened with Ernie, and I'm sorry that it's you and not me in that chair, but I don't know what you expect me to do. What you want from me!?!." He took a deep breath and let it out, and in a more subdued tone he said, "I want to help you baby, but I don't know how, and you won't tell me how."

It was as if months of frustration, that had been building up, had finally spilled over. His shoulders shook and he held his head down, a sure fire sign that he was crying. I wanted to go over to him, and hold him, tell him that I loved him, that I didn't want things to continue the way they were, but I couldn't. I didn't know how. Instead, I held my head down, like the coward I was, and let him cry for himself, for me, and most importantly, for us.

RICHIE

I had enough of this, this pretending that things were fine, that everything was going to be ok, for I knew everything was not going to be ok, everything was not going to be fine, and we were not going to be fine. Since he had left the hospital two months ago, it was like he had retreated into his shell, shutting everything and everyone out. Half the time, I couldn't tell what he was thinking, what he was feeling, what he wanted or most importantly what he needed from me. When I did try to make that leap of faith, I only managed to make things more awkward and strained between us. It came to a point where I was afraid to even touch him, for fear he would go off on me. Intimacy was a thing of the past and I had no way around it. I admit that I missed the sex, but that was only a small part of it for me. The sex, in my opinion, was a bonus. I could have survived on just the closeness I had felt whenever he held me, or sang to me, whenever he touched or just looked at me, with warmth in his eyes. But now, all that was a thing of the past. Since coming home two months ago, I was more like the hired help, rather than his partner. He looked to me for material things, rather than meaningful guidance and comfort, and it hurt more than words could describe.

"I guess my main purpose is to be your maid, now isn't it? That's all I seem to do around here lately. I cook, I clean, I shop, I get your meds, I make sure everything works out for you. YOU! It's all about you, Bobby, always. I'm sorry about what happened with Ernie, and I'm sorry that it's you, and not me, in that chair, but I don't know what you expect me to do. What you want from me? I want to help you, baby, but I don't know how, and you won't tell me how." That's when I had finally broken down and told him, expecting at the least, a reaction from him, but all I got in return was stone cold silence. He just sat in his chair and looked at me as if I were some stranger, rather than the man that had been there with him through thick and thin. That realization had me standing by the sink, slowly losing it. I waited for him to respond, hoping for a sign, a touch, anything that would let me know he cared, but none came. I walked over to where I had left the bags, and reached into one, pulling out a Duane Reade bag. I walked over to where he sat, and when his eyes finally met mine, I threw the bag down into his lap and walked past him into the bedroom. It must have been half an hour later, when I heard the quiet rolling of his wheelchair, as he entered the bedroom door. I pretended to be sleeping as he slowly made his way to the unoccupied side of the bed, and then pushed into the mattress, and hoisted himself out of the chair and into the bed. The groans that he emitted were the tell tale signs of how difficult this was for him. By the time he was flat on his back, his breathing was heavy and exasperated. I wanted to reach across his chest and hold him, letting him know that I was there for him, but I didn't. Instead, I continued to feign sleep. It seemed that only a few minutes of virtual silence passed before something amazing and unexpected happened, he reached over and touched my waist. At first I stiffened at his touch, but then familiarity took over, and I relaxed into the beginning of his embrace.

"I miss you, babe," was his whispered response, as he pulled me into him, forcing me to turn towards him, and forcing my body to turn into his, so that we were face to face.

"I miss you, too," I whispered back, entwining my hand in his, and then leaning over to kiss the side of his lips. He seemed to not mind this closeness as he used his arms to pull me on top of him, and latched his lips unto mine. His kisses were hungry, and they should have been, after all, it had been almost two months since we had had any form of intimacy. I felt myself growing hard against him, and wondered if he could feel it too, not that that was of any concern to me. Whether or not we ended up making love was not important; this was. Having him holding me, crushing his lips against mine, forcing us to reconnect, that was what mattered, and it was all I cared about at that moment. I was hoping that this would go on forever, but I knew that, eventually, we would both have to come up for air. I lifted off him slightly, and looked into his eyes, and I couldn't help but mist a little, I missed him so damn much.

"I'm so sorry, Richie," he stated, using his thumb to wipe the tears that had begun to form in my eyes. "I know I've been an asshole, babe, and I know I've apologized a million times, and I know you're fed up of all my shit, but I'm lost without you, baby. I can't handle this shit, I just can't. If it weren't for you, I'd want to be dead."

"Oh, Bobby, don't say that," I whispered back, "don't say that."

"But, it's true. I don't know how to live like this, I just can't. I'm a fucking cripple, Richie. I can't do shit. I'm no fucking use to anybody, especially you. I can't even fucking get it up, and I probably never will again. You don't need this, baby, you don't need me."

The very idea, that he thought that any of that would matter to me, forced me to do something that I hadn't done in a long time; it forced me to take charge.

"Just stop it, Bobby, just fucking stop it! I don't care! I don't care if you're in a wheelchair, I don't care if you can't get an erection, and I don't care if we never make love again! I love you, and that's all that matters. I'm not gonna leave you for anything. You got that? I will be here as long as time, and God, permits, and nothing is gonna change the way I feel about you." It was the truth and I prayed to God that it was getting through to him. I looked into his eyes and was surprised to see that tears filled them, and, as if on cue, the dam burst, and he let loose a straggled sob that shook his chest. For the next ten minutes, he cried in the crook of my arm like a baby, and didn't stop until sleep took him. While his gentle snores filled the room, I leaned over, kissed his forehead, and prayed that he would have pleasant dreams.

MICHAEL

Have you ever heard the saying, that you don't really get to see what somebody is really like until you've actually lived with them? Well, let me tell you something, whoever came up with that saying, knew exactly what they were talking about. Living with Adam these past few months has been anything but smooth sailing. With all that space to throw around, who would think that our main problem would amount to a simple issue such as personal space. I mean, I could understand if we were living in some 1 bedroom, 1 bathroom, and kitchen/dining room apartment, with no ventilation and vermin, and have that issue come up. But that wasn't the case. We were comfortably situated on the Upper East Side, cushioned in a comfy co-op that was equipped with three bedrooms, three bathrooms, a den, a kitchen and separate dining room, a patio and roof garden. We even had full access to a state of the art gym, and laundry room in the basement, but despite all the perks, we were still stepping over each other, and not in the way I had hoped for. It had started as a few minor irritations, like the way he would pick up after me. I would drop a towel on top of the hamper, and two seconds later, he would be right behind me throwing it in. It steadily got worse, to the point where he was actually color coding and categorizing my clothes.

"How you find anything is beyond me," was his only comment, as he kept himself busy playing fucking, June Cleaver. Not that I minded, terribly, to a point. But, after living like this for two months, I was slowly reaching my boiling point, and I decided to call him on it as I watched him meticulously scrub a glass that I had just washed moments earlier.

"Are my dishwashing skills not good enough for you?" I threw out, hoping that I would reel in a satisfactory answer. He looked up from what he was doing and flashed me a strained smile.

"Of course not, Michael. It's just that I noticed that there was no soap on the sponge when you washed the glass, and you weren't exactly drinking water. You know I can't stand the smell of stale beer, and if you don't wash the glasses thoroughly, the smell will always be there."

I just had to laugh at his precise explanation, right down to the last detail.

"You're so fucking uptight, Adam, relax man. So what if a glass smells like beer. We'll get a new one. And another thing, what's up with you ironing all my shirts?" It was another mission of his. Making sure I was the most exemplary dressed male possible.

"I just thought you'd prefer them crisped, rather than crushed. It sure looks better when you're neat, sexier, too," he added, sending me a wink. That was another thing. He seemed to be getting more aggressive in our relationship, making bolder moves on me in private, and a lot more in public. Just last week, he almost made me cum in the middle of central park, when he attempted to 'anal probe' me in front of a group of senior citizens. It was a hot scene, and I enjoyed the stimulation, but it wasn't Adam. It was as if I was him, and he was me. I seemed to be settling into this partner role, being more considerate of what time I came home, calling just to say, 'I love you', when the mood struck me, and making an attempt to be romantic by cooking without burning down the house. But, for every Adam-like thing that I did, he countered them with a Michael moment. It started with the public fondling, but then escalated to things like him wanting to take over me by controlling what I wore and what I ate. The glass thing was just another prime example of how he had changed within those few months we had moved in together.

"Adam, not to be a jerk or anything but I like the way I look in my crushed shirts and I like my socks all mixed up and I like drinking beer from a glass and having the smell linger." What I said, for a moment, seemed to bring forth no response from him, but then he spoke,

"Fine. If you want to dress like a wilted vegetable, go ahead. I was just trying to help. Since we're not trying to be jerks, or anything, I want to let you know that I'd appreciate it if you'd cap the toothpaste when you're finished with it, put away your shoes when you get in, and not put a glass down on the furniture without a coaster." His voiced sounded strained as if he was holding back.

"I'm a grown-ass man, Adam, and I don't need you to be acting like my mother. If I want to leave my fucking clothes around, and my shoes out, then I can."

As if he had meant to slap me in the face, he responded by saying, "Well, not in my house, you can't. I pay the mortgage here, and I think I at least deserve some level of respect from you, Michael. I will put up with a lot of shit from you, but not this blatant disrespect of my home, which I have been more than generous in opening up to you." At the end of his little tirade he let out a deep breath, and his eyes refused to meet mine.

"Is that how you really feel now?" I questioned. "That I'm some sort of leech, that I'm here to use you? And another thing, I thought this was OUR home. I was under the distinct impression when I moved in here, that we were gonna be in this as equal partners. As I remembered, you told me not to worry about the mortgage until I could find a steady job..."

"Which you haven't," he piped in. It was as if something in me finally snapped. I had had enough of this shit. This partnership, this lifestyle, this life. I got up from my chair and walked away from him into his bedroom. I flung open the closets with so much ferocity that the door almost came off its hinges, and pulled a suitcase down from the top shelf. I began throwing clothes into it, without much thought, and as it filled up quickly, my thoughts reverted to the next issue. Where would I go?

"What are you doing?" His voice broke me out of thought for a moment, and I turned to face him. His frame leaned against the door, and his eyes darted back and forth, between me and the suitcase on the bed.

"What the fuck does it look like I'm doing?" I spat, not caring if I was the cause of the hurt expression that adorned his face.

"Come on, Michael, I'm sorry, I didn't mean all the things that I said in there. It's just that this has been hard on me, too. I'm not used to all of this, especially from you." His voice sounded somber, and for a split second, I was tempted to throw myself into his arms, but I didn't.

"It's not gonna work out, Adam. I can see it your eyes, and I can hear it in your voice."

"It was just a stupid argument, Michael. It meant nothing."

I sighed, "Just because this is the first time we've argued this, it doesn't mean that it hasn't been a problem. This has been brewing below the surface for a damn long time. The glass was just the thing that finally brought it to the surface."

"So you're just gonna leave? Walk away from everything we've spent months building up? Don't you love me, Michael?"

I ran my hand through my hair, and turned away from him. "Love is not enough, Adam. We're just way too different. I like to be messy, you like to be neat. I like brew, you like water. There's just not enough holding us together."

"Well, I'll change," he finally said. The desperateness in his voice was clear as day, and I was afraid to turn around to face him, for fear that I would falter in my decision to leave.

"Just stop it, Adam. You don't need to change. Ok? I don't either. We're just not compatible." And with that, I closed my suitcase, picked it up, and walked past him to the front door. I stopped and turned around at the sound of his voice.

"I don't care, Michael! Please, I'm sorry I said the things I said. I'm sorry I am the way I am. I tried to change, I really did, but it's like everything I try to do to get you to love me, it backfires. I thought, maybe if I tried to be more like your type, I could make you stay."

His last statement caught my attention, big time. "Is that where all this aggressiveness is coming from. The thing at Central Park..." At the reminder, he began to blush.

"Well, uh, yeah. Isn't that what you wanted? Isn't that who you wanted me to be?"

"No. No! If that was what I wanted, Adam, I would have gone out and found it. I never wanted you to change. How could you even think that?"

He didn't answer me immediately, but instead cast his eyes downward.

"I chose you, Adam..." I started and stopped as he intervened,

"Then, if I'm such a good choice, why are you leaving me. I obviously did something wrong if you'd rather walk out than work it out," he said in a hushed whisper that sent chills down my spine.

"It's not you, Adam. It's just that I think we need some space away from each other. We're falling apart at the seams here."

"And you think leaving will help the situation any? You think that's the answer to everything," and in a more somber tone he added, "you think walking away will solve anything? Please, Michael, don't do this to us. Please, I'm begging you."

Against my better judgment, I found myself walking over to him, and allowing him to throw himself into my outstretched arms. He held on to me as if his life depended on it, and once again begged me not to go.

"Something has to change, Adam, we can't keep living like this."

"I know," he whispered, "I know."

"I don't want to break up." And I didn't. We had come too far to turn back now and I had invested so much emotion into us, that to turn back now, without a fight, would have been a travesty.

"Neither do I, but I don't know how to change things, how to make them better."

"We need help," I stated, plainly. We needed outside help, and I found that I wasn't ashamed to admit that we couldn't do it on our own.

"We can see a therapist over at the hospital."

"Fine," I whispered, leaning into him even more, and kissing the top of his forehead. I had to admit that relief was running through me at that very moment, for even though I was more than prepared to walk out, I was more than happy that Adam had asked me to stay, giving us a chance to get the help we so desperately needed. Just holding him there, in my arms, cradling him like a baby, it made me realize how much he had come to mean to me, and how much the thought of losing him sent an unnerving pain to my chest.

"Promise me you won't leave me tonight, please, Michael, promise." He looked up at me and awaited a response.

"I promise," were my only words before I lifted his lips to mine and kissed him with all the passion I possessed, knowing that that would get the message across clearer than any words ever could.

I KNOW IT'S A LITTLE SLOW IN COMING BUT IT WILL STILL BE COMING. HOPE YOU GUYS ENJOY IT AND PLEASE LET ME KNOW WHAT YOU THINK. IT'S ALWAYS APPRECIATED.