The Versatile Blogger Award

Last week we were nominated by Hookup Culture for the Versatile Blogger Award! Thank you so much for the nomination! We love your blog and are so glad you like ours too 🙂 (Rules for nominees at the bottom of the page)

7 Facts about us:

  1. Our origin story: Samantha, Stanford and Carrie went to high school together, Stanford and Carrie also went to university together while Samantha and Charlotte were roommates at university for four years. Miranda and Samantha met at work and started DTT6 to replace the post-shenaniganry coffee updates taking place all too frequently.
  2. Charlotte has a photographic memory….when it comes to memorizing shopping malls and online inventories.
  3. Samantha can name the winner of every season of survivor (and is very proud of this fact)
  4. Miranda‘s sneezes are so loudly she could both wake the dead and scare the living half to death.
  5. Carrie has never had the chicken pox so don’t expect any dates with her to be anywhere near a coop or a farm.
  6. Stanford can say the entire alphabet backwards.
  7. The five of us have never been in the same room all at the same time.

We are nominated the following awesome blogs that we love and know you will too.

Cat in the Cactus

50(+) First Dates

Suzie the Single Dating Diva

Ordinary Adventures

Fatty McCupcakes

What are you still doing here? Go check them out!


  1. Thank the person that nominated you and include a link to their blog.
  2. Nominate at least 15 bloggers of your choice. When considering a fellow blogger for the Versatile Blogger Award, keep in mind the quality of their writing, the uniqueness of their subject matter and the level of love displayed on the virtual page.
  3. Link your nominees and let them know about their nomination.
  4. Share seven facts about yourself.



From the Archives: Mr. Mind-F*ckboy

Carrie – How do I begin to summarize the most complicated and confusing relationship that encompassed eight months of my life? Although it’s been a while since we last talked and nothing in particular brought him up, I still think of him in late hours of insomniac nights.

Let’s go back to January 2015. Mr. Mind-F*ckboy was essentially a one-night stand of a wild weekend gone awry. Newly single Carrie had just had her first overnighter with a stranger who departed with a “thanks but you know I’ll never see you again.” I suppose that’s what I wanted at the time, that’s why I chose this random out-of-town guy who was visiting the first week of my last semester of undergrad.

Flash forward to the next night and I felt a little confused and off-kilter from my first one night stand. My friend, Mr. Stanford Blach in fact, was going out and told me to join so I put on my glasses and granny panties in a preventative form of birth control. We get to the bar and I’m waiting with my friend’s boyfriend from Ottawa who sees his friend from high school. And he was HOT. We get introduced and I’ve never been so attracted to someone (other than Zac Efron) right off the bat. Later, sipping on my G&T, I spot Mr. MFB brooding in the corner as we make eye contact. He starts moving through a crowd in my direction and I frantically chug my drink in preparation. We hit it off with a surprisingly deep conversation that flowed from classic rock to hook up culture to volun-tourism to neoliberalism and I hadn’t felt that strong of a connection with anyone before. He asked to come home with me and I agreed, silently cursing myself for the granny panties.
Continue reading “From the Archives: Mr. Mind-F*ckboy”

Mr. Views of the 6ix


I go to meet him at the subway stop close to his place and all I’m thinking is please don’t let him be short. Please don’t let him be short. Because if he’s short, I’m screwed. I can’t very well turn around and be like “Naw I’m good, ttyl”. Here I am, it’s Saturday night, 1:30 in the morning, and I’m waiting on a street corner for some guy from j-swipe. I know…how in the fuck am I actually here again.

Luckily, he wasn’t short. Not tall per say, but a good two inches more than me so I’ll count this one as a win. He also looked just like his online profile which was a refreshing change and I’m thinking “Great, all signs point to go so far”. So we go to his apartment and this place was GORGEOUS. Like, well-furnished, floor to ceiling windows and the most incredible view of the city I’ve ever seen. He lives in Yorkville, so you’ve got the CN tower to the left and uptown to the right. I couldn’t help but feel fancy af in a place like this, and as a young professional LIVING AT HOME, it was totally my fantasy apartment. Literally, this place was the “come-to-life” version of fantasy locations I’ve had in the past. Needless to say, the mood was set the moment I walked through the door.

We end the “apartment tour” in his bedroom where things heated up pretty quickly. While we didn’t have the most amazing conversational chemistry, our physical connection was undeniable. We had a fantastic time together and to put it plainly I’ll say I barely slept all night.

I could probably end the post here, but have decided to include some of racy details instead because (I think) they’re too hilarious not to share. However, this is definitely a little TMI for a public site, so if you’re not into that kind of thing I’d suggest skipping to the last paragraph now.

We get right to it and I quickly notice he has a full-length, mirrored closet right next to his bed. My first thought is “Omg you can see everything, this is my nightmare.” I mean, who wants to see what they look like bumping uglies? Clearly not Ross and Rachel in  “The One with the Videotape”, when they realize how horrifyingly awkward sex can look. The quotes “Ew” and “Oh, that’s not pretty” are particularly memorable. Well, after a few minutes I realize “Omg you can see everything, but this is really hot!” Unlike the episode of Friends we were both really into seeing it all play out and I warmly welcomed the mirror as a prop in my love life.

The face you make when the sex looks awkward af

Anyway, end of round 1 I am on top (of the pyramid…hello*) and Mr. Views hoists me up to place me on the bed beside him. Unfortunately, he misjudges the edge of the mattress and much to my surprise, tosses me directly onto the floor. I was so thrown off (literally and figuratively) that I burst out laughing at the thought of what I looked like sprawled naked on his floor next to my new best friend, the mirror.

Alright, so I’m trying not to harp on the intimate details of my sex life because that has never really been what this blog is about. I do, however, want to take this opportunity to highlight the topic of butts.

I am a butt virgin. I have never ventured to the nether region and have no current interest in doing so. In fact, the whole idea freaks me out. Generally speaking, I am a sexually open person, I just have legit 0 interest in something being stuck in my butt when I’m not bored of having it stuck in my front just yet. Funnily enough, this is what led to LOL moment numero dos from my night with Mr. Views, self-proclaimed ‘butt guy’. About five minutes after the “tossed-off-the-bed” incident, we’re cuddling  when out of nowhere he whispers: “Should I get the lube”.

Honestly, I had to do my very best not to burst out laughing (again!) because the comment was just so out of place and soooo unsexy in that moment. While I’m all for a slap or a little roughness, I was not interested in losing my be-hymen that night and politely declined his offer. I’m not forever opposed to the idea, but was not looking to make my first time with a hyper-active, butt-obsessed random, whose most redeeming quality was his taste in décor.

And finally, the piece de resistance, my crowning achievement and most Sex and the City-esque moment of all time. We’re hooking up for umpteenth that night and had decided to take our sexual relations into new territory: the kitchen.

Sidebar for Mr. Views’ roommate: I deeply apologize for defouling your oven, but it provided great leverage and I can safely say that the oven wasn’t the only thing cooking with gas that night, buh dum tsssss.

 Bad jokes aside, my spot on the oven provided a perfect vantage point of that fan-fucking-tastic view of Toronto and I may have actually gotten turned on by how beautiful it was. I know this sounds pretty absurd but I was so into that apartment, the view, and this mental idea of having “made it” that I don’t even think Mr. Views had to have been there for me to be having a good time.

Yup, I’m a freak in all definitions of the word.

So props to you Mr. Views of the 6ix! Good sex is hard to have the first time around but we really figured it out. I doubt we’ll be more than fuck buddies but I can almost guarantee we’ll see each other again. It is a little weird acting this way when at the end of the day I know I want a relationship. I mean, the whole reason I have been using j-swipe exclusively is because I want to meet people I could actually end up with. But the fact remains that I will not be in love with every single guy – or likely any single guy – that I meet on these dating apps. So, if I happen to find a cute, nice guy, with an AMAZING apartment who satisfies some of my needs, would I be me if I said no?


*John Tucker Must Die reference. If you didn’t get it, then why are you even reading this blog?BiTqpH2IQAANyPq.jpg

Why deciding if I’m going to shave my legs is one of the hardest parts of dating

During my shower this morning I came to the conclusion that dealing with leg hair is without a doubt one of the most difficult part of dating in 2016. You may be asking yourself why I think that this to be true. “Samantha”, you may ask, “are you crazy? There are waaaay harder parts of dat single life…think about tinder fkbois, think about unwanted dick pics, think about GHOSTING”. Yes dear reader, you are correct, those are all very trying aspects of the dating game and I do not particularly enjoy any of them. However, they are not the hardest part for one simple reason: the decision to shave my legs (or not) is directly related to the outcome of the date.


Now hear me out for I have not completely lost my marbles. I happen to be one of those people who likes to always be prepared. Subsequently, I have a couple things I make sure to do when getting ready for a date. I wear something that makes me feel confident (including cute underwear to match), I brush my teeth no matter the time of day and I always carry a contact case for any unanticipated sleepovers. No one wants to wake up as a red-eyed monster.

These are the things that I do to feel prepared no matter the date’s outcome, and are also pretty indicative of why I would stress over something as banal as leg hair. Shaving is an all-or-nothing choice in which I need to make a definitive decision, while I prefer to keep my options open.  So, while we can all agree that I may have problems with control (or specifically not having any), let me run you through a few of the reasons why this decision-making process is so very hard.

 1) To wax or not to wax, that is the (first) question

I hate leg hair. Not an abnormal amount or anything, but my problem with leg hair is much like my problem with overly-emotional people: both require too much attention. As such, I am an advocate for waxing over shaving, because a good wax allows me to pretend leg hair doesn’t exist at least for a few days. So, during an epic shaving debate – much like the one I had this morning – I have to decide if the date is worth ruining the progress of the “growing out” stage required by waxing. Because realistically I will, if…

 2) I want to hook up with the guy

Circumstances in which I am looking to play a game of Mr. Wobbly hides his helmet (this is a legit euphemism for having sex, I checked) often lead to their own line of questioning:

  1. Do I anticipate hooking up with this guy?
  2. Is this a first date?
  3. What does he think this is?
  4. Is this going to be just a hook up if I give it up on our first interaction?
  5. Does he care about those things?
  6. If we do hook up, would he care about my leg hair?
  7. How have I already been in the shower for over ten minutes?

At this point, my hands are getting pruney, I have lathered, rinsed AND repeated, and have nothing left to do but continue wasting water.

The act of shaving, or not, forces me to evaluate what I want from the guy, our upcoming interaction and the whole friggen relationship potential before I even find out his last name. And yes, I recognize that this is me being a little cray cray, but it is also very practical thinking! If I just want him for a hookup then I either have to shave in anticipation of that happening or not because do I really need to impress ‘just a hook up’ anyway? On the flip side, if I am hoping for more than just one date, maybe I don’t want to put all my cards on the table and leave my hand totally exposed. It is usually at this point where I come across the third factor that makes this decision so hard.

3) Expectations.

Whether or not I shave my legs is directly correlated with my expectations for the evening. It’s true! I’m serious, it’s been scientifically tested and the results are statistically significant.


Let me run you through a quick scenario: I decide to shave my legs (ruining my next waxing opportunity) because the guy I am meeting tonight is really cute and seems super nice. I don’t necessarily want to hook up with him on the first date because, as he is really cute and seems nice, I would like the option to potentially date this person. However, for those very same reasons I don’t want to be some hairy beast if I do end up going home with him, so I shave my legs. Well, now I have put so much thought and time into this trivial decision that I am expecting to have a super awesome time and super un-hairy sex with this poor sucker who has no idea that he is going on a date with a proven psychopath. Thus, when he cancels 5 hours prior because he has appendicitis (this has actually happened to me), I am v. disappointed because I have beautifully smooth legs and no one to show them off to!


So there you have it. My argument for why deciding to shave my legs is one of the most difficult part of the dating game. I am forced to attend to something I’d prefer to ignore entirely, decide what I want the relationship to be before I’ve met the guy and set myself up for disappointment if it doesn’t work out. I hope I have been able to shed some light on another one of the countless annoying #justgirlythings that I’m sure men never even think to consider. Looking forward to the day I finally have enough cash to laser it all away for good.



Mr. Card-again

Carrie – It’s been about a month since I met Mr. Cardigan. In this time, we have maybe exchanged thirty messages or so. While this may seem a lot on its own, I think I have tried to text my house landline more than Mr. C. Nevertheless, I did meet up with him again, hence his new name: Mr. Card-again (#sorrynotsorry for the bad pun).

He messaged me the Monday after we met, presumably after work around 5:30. Giddy with excitement, I messaged back instantaneously and we banter. Then I go to yoga, thinking I’m gonna leave him hanging for an hour and a half until I’m out of my class – that’s a long enough time to not seem to eager right? I exit the class, running to the lockers to check my phone to ~ nothing ~. It’s interesting talking to new people and how it sets the rules to the game that you two are gonna play. For instance, am I gonna be a prompt responder to this person or do I have to play a little more hard-to-get to keep this person chasing? I hate it, but I unknowingly play by these rules.

I spend the whole next day in anxiety. Confused by why he would message if he didn’t want to talk, annoyed by the fact I cared, bruised by it seemingly like yet another disinterested guy, I felt like absolute shit. I realize I derive a lot of my confidence and self-worth from the relationships I keep, be it friendships or romantic interests, and not all of them are worth my time. I was a little down but just shrugged it off by the end of the workday: another one for the blog, I suppose.

Then after work, Mr. C’s name pops up on my phone, continuing the conversation as if it hadn’t been 23 hours… But who’s counting? I decide to sass him: “Do you check your phone once every day at 5:30 or are you just trying to play hard to get?” It takes hours between every text response and the guy texts in a manner akin to the first time you meet your friend’s parents. He’s a cordial, polite, full-sentence-with-punctuation texter with very little flirtation. He asks me about my plans for the weekend at which point I disclose I’m dipping to Mexico but let’s stay in touch. He agrees, telling me and my family to have a happy holiday. See, he can be sweet!

We message once in Mexico and he asks me when I’m coming back. I respond but he doesn’t answer for five days. FIVE DAYS. What’s the point in answering at all? I can make excuses for him: it’s the holidays, we barely know one another, I’m away in Mexico, etc. etc. However, I find it skeptical that he couldn’t find the time to send me a simple text until the day I’m coming home.

He booty calls me on New Year’s Eve (technically New Year’s Day) at 2:30 am asking to come over. In the immortal words of How I Met Your Mother, “Nothing good happens after 2 a.m.” When I tell him no, he persists and asks me when he can see me next. I tell him we can hang out later that day at a normal hour.

The next morning, I see a text from him. Shocking. 2:38 a.m.: “I’m coming over tomorrow.” We try to make plans for that evening but he bails because he has to work early. At this point, I am ready to write him off but he follows up with a “No excuses for me, can we please hang Saturday or Sunday night?” I reluctantly agree.

Sunday was great. Mr. C wasn’t wearing a cardigan this time, but he was clad in a sweater and that’s close enough to his namesake right? We went to Three Brewers for some beers, he was as cute as I remembered, the conversation flowed really easily and we even laughed a couple of times. Nothing overly memorable but it seemed like it was full of potential. He was family oriented, animatedly telling me about his siblings and parents. He paid for us, opened the door for me, and we walked back to my place. In my bed, we cuddled and he gave me forehead kisses, complimented the way I smell, and acted like a complete sweet and shy gentleman before we engaged in some non-PG-13 activities. Mother Nature was not on my side that week so we make vague plans to ‘hang out’ (probably code for bang) this weekend before he left. He gave me a kiss and departed with a “we’ll talk.”

But the thing is: we don’t talk. Since his first text, I have initiated the majority of our interactions. He blew me off this weekend again because he’s been ‘sick’. When I press the point, he apologizes, saying his family gave it to him and he doesn’t want to pass it onto me. This would all be completely fine, I can take his words at face-value and believe him… but I just have this nagging feeling it isn’t the full truth. He doesn’t try to follow up with another date or even try to continue a conversation past the day. I don’t need to sugar coat things: it is more than likely he’s not interested. I just wish it would be said in an honest conversation.

So he wasn’t free Saturday night, but that doesn’t mean I wasn’t. I went out to the Maddy to go dancing with my girls and rejecting the creepy guys. But man, I love being single and ending the night with a burrito in my mouth instead of a dick.

Maybe I’ll hear from him again but my New Year’s Resolution is to stop chasing dead-ends. That’s not to say I won’t pursue anyone or put myself out there to stay open to new possibilities but why waste my time and efforts on people that aren’t worth it? And as I already broke my “eat healthy” new year, new me resolution when I scarfed down a box of 20 Timbits, this is one I’ll try to keep.

Peace & ❤ until next week.

Mr. Benefits aka Mr. Hot and Cold

uber.jpgSamantha – This post is going to be rather short as not much has changed besides the way in which I will refer to this individual.

Henceforth, Mr. Hot and Cold will be known as Mr. Benefits, to reflect my view on our current”relationship”status. Very quickly, he went from being someone I had a real connection with, to a complete ass who disappeared without a trace, to nothing more than a semi-convenient booty call.  I originally thought about changing his name to Mr. Friends with Benefits but really, we’re not even friends ¯\_(ツ)_/¯.

Let me explain. Mr. Benefits and I have fallen into a pretty comfortable pattern that goes as follows:

  1. One of us messages the other to see what they’re doing that night
  2. I head to his place after our respective plans end
  3. We hook up
  4. I go home

The whole “let’s grab drinks and get to know each other” thing that we were doing has gone completely out the window. Which is really weird when you think about how infatuated I was after our first date. Like I wanted to legit date the guy….Well, infatuation is defined as intense but short-lived passion for a reason, as now I couldn’t care less if he messaged me with something as forward as “let’s bang”. Funny how things change.

There is actually one other development to our story line. This past weekend he invited me to over after quite a drunken night at the bar – on my part. I was waaaay too tired to go home after shenanigans ensued and ended up sleeping over…a cardinal booty call sin, I know.

As previously mentioned, Mr. Benefits has a loft bed, making getting up and down a huge mission. The morning after I was way too hungover/lazy/socially inept to climb up and hit my head on the roof AGAIN just to say goodbye. So, with him still half-asleep a couple feet overhead, I grabbed my things, called my trusty uber and headed for the door. He seemed completely taken aback by my quick departure (sorry babe, I’ve got things to do other than you) and even more surprised when I reached up for a quick high-five on my way out….A very classy move on my part if I do say so myself.

Honestly, I’m not all that down for whatever “this” is anymore, the random hook up is really just not worth the mission. But, I have a feeling that Drunk Samantha would probably disagree and  end up messaging him if I’ve got nothing else on the go…damn that horny betch.

Mr. Belt

Miranda – This is the story that started it all for me: online dating, random meetups and an exploration of the Toronto dating pool. Although after hearing it, you’ll probably wonder why it wasn’t my last.

Let’s go back about 4 years ago. I’m young, I’m naïve, and I’m craving love and attention. Not so much has changed since then but that’s beside the point. This is before Tinder came into play so the only options really out there were the standard OkCupid and Plenty of Fish type sites. After a few days on the site and countless creepy messages, I receive a message from a refreshingly decent looking dude. I take a chance and we begin talking for the span of about 3 days before we decide to meet up for drinks. However, I’m ashamed to admit I made a rookie mistake. He was an English major, and boy did it show. I allowed myself to sext with him (NEVER AGAIN!) and things turned heated pretty quick. I’ll give him this: he definitely had a way with words that got you going, a cunning linguist if you get my drift. The reason I say this is a rookie mistake is because if you haven’t yet met the guy, by sexting, you set up all these weird expectations before you even get to decide if you actually like him. Which, judging by the tone of this post so far, it’s pretty clear to see that I later found out that I did not.

I met Mr. Belt at a subway station and my first instinct as a business student was to introduce myself with a handshake. First impression: HOLY SHIT LEAVE BEFORE ITS TOO LATE. He wasn’t kidding when he said he was tall and awkward. Mr. Belt’s handshake was the definition of a soft, limp, fish aka a complete turn off. In fact, the memory of that hand exchange still gives me shivers to this day. I panicked at the idea of spending the next couple hours with him but I pushed the thought away and our date continued.

We ventured our way to the cheapest and grungiest bar in the 6ix (his pick, obviously) and we split a pitcher of what I’m pretty sure was diluted piss. Now, I’m going to skip the rest of the date and fast forward to the end, because that’s how he earned the name Mr. Belt.

We are now waiting at a bus stop and during this time, somehow the subject of tattoos came up. So, naturally I asked him if he had any. Before I continue, keep in mind we are outside on a busy intersection at about 9pm at night and there are definitely more than a few people out and about. Instead of answering my question like a normal human being, Mr. Belt proceeded to respond by unbuckling his belt. Before I had a chance to express my horror, he quickly pulled down his pants to reveal his boxers and bare legs. Apparently, he thought a live demonstration would be the best way to show me his crappy amateur tattoo of an “X” on his right knee. At this point, I’m pretty sure I was still in shock and had not uttered a word until I looked down at his hands and noticed something that made me burst out in nervous, crazed laughter. In his slim, oddly feminine hands were the remnants of his broken belt and belt buckle; a result of his rushed attempt to reveal his ink. Hindsight is 20/20 and I’m pretty sure at that moment, he regretted everything including life itself. He hastily pulled his pants back up, oversized and sagging due to its typical dependence on a belt and I looked away to give him some privacy.

The remainder of the wait for the bus was a blur, and we stood uncomfortably next to each other in quiet torture waiting for this entire situation to end. Eventually, the bus came and we parted ways with what I can only describe as a sad excuse of a hug. Somehow, he had the balls to ask if we would see each other again. Even as I weakly nodded yes, we both knew in my eyes that that was the last thing I would ever want to do.

And so, the story of Mr. Belt was born.

Well, if there’s one lesson to be learned here: invest in quality belts, for you may never know when you need to depend on its quality stitch and superior leather hide.

Mr. Starry Night

Miranda – One thing you should know about me is I’m an all or nothing kind of gal, and it’s probably a bad thing.

The Tinder game has been an uphill battle for me right from the get go. I’ve probably downloaded and deleted the app a dozen times so far in the last two years in my complete inability to find a decent man. Take it back two months ago, and I find myself yet again on the app, praying that the 12-year-old boys and the slimy fukboi’s have since left to give way to the Prince Charmings’ of the world. A couple swipes later (who am I kidding -more like hundreds) and who do I find but Mr. Starry Night.

I learn soon after that Mr. Starry Night is wonderful. He is intelligent, ambitious, and his sense of humor hits the mark. A couple days later we have a date for Friday drinks, stemming from the coincidental discovery that we were reading the same book, at the same time (Blink by Malcolm Gladwell in case you were wondering).

Monday rolls around and while bored out of my mind at work, I did something uncharacteristic and decided to reschedule the date to later that day because fuck it, I can’t wait another 5 days to find out if this man is actually a serial rapist. Surprisingly, he says yes and hours later we find ourselves at a craft beer bar having a blast over beers I can’t pronounce and mussels, the best kind of combination. Three drinks later, we’re tipsy and sloppily trying to maintain a witty banter and there, I understood that this fantastic night was coming to an end. We paid for the bill (dutch, mind you) and walked outside into the warm summer night. Just as I was about to thank him for the great date, he surprises me by saying “so, where to next?” Wait, there’s more?

Overall, it was an incredible and diverse night. We walked around in a park, I screamed like a little bitch when I saw a body laying in a dark corner, which ended up being just a homeless man taking a nap (sorry again for waking you from your slumber), and I saved a girl from her abusive boyfriend (more like distracted him enough for her to run away, but I’m still a hero). You know, just a regular first date. We ended the night lying in a field of grass, looking up at the vivid stars while he lay next to me, coughing uncontrollably every once in a while due to his recovering cold.  It was very romantic and why I named him Mr. Starry Night. I could just end the story here- and call it the best first 7 hour date ever, but that wouldn’t be an accurate depiction of the sad state of my life.

Mr. Starry Night and I parted ways and within 10 minutes he texted asking to see me again. Giddy at the prospect of finally finding a decent man from Tinder no less, I then proceeded to imagine every possible outcome of this encounter. Remember- I’m all or nothing. In fact, I was so excited and nervous at this insignificantly significant part of my life that I spent the next 5 days restless and unable to sleep.

When Saturday finally came, we had yet another enjoyable date eating and watching a movie, but something felt a little bit off. Call it my spidey-senses tingling or what have you, but something had definitely changed. At the end of the date, I mustered up the courage to explore this feeling I had. Sometimes, I hate it when I’m right. After a bit of probing, I learned a few things:

  1. He likes me, he’d like to hang again.
  2. He’s not quite over his ex yet – he just came out of a long-term relationship.
  3. He hooked up with a girl the Thursday and Friday before we met for the second time and he’d like to see where it goes with her.

Well, that escalated quickly. What a rollercoaster of emotions. Upon hearing these stark revelations, I abruptly thanked him for the honesty and hurried home, another chapter closing behind me.  We had a brief, but enjoyable stint together.

Like a star, he was there- shining bright and in the next moment, gone, as if he never existed at all. Don’t mind me -I’m not suicidal, just dramatic.