"The Ramblings of a student, a teenager, a model a

I just wanted you to stand by me; so we could grow together. I had tried to stand by you, but I felt it was all thrown back in my face; and had gone unappreciated. I had decided I wanted to help people; to work in social Policy when I graduate. I think its because I felt this connection; back to home; to where wealth was; in financial terms; but it was surrounded by hardship when you went 10 minutes in one direction. It was just so close by. I knew that I had changed that night I realised I was over you. Because for the first time, I felt that you weren’t good enough. I hate myself for it; with a passion because it was so good and could have been so much. But theres more to life than living in a daze. Maybe im being a snob; but like I said to him, it was all relative. In my case I wasn’t a snob because I had seen so much more since I had come here. You were still there, and I longed for you to realise. This is how the world works, and this is reality. This is the means of achieving success; those who have reason for why it is a bad thing simply cannot see and cannot understand the signs; or enter themselves into the context. And Here we go again, Im starting on my own. Im staring it head on; but that it what it takes. I was trying to bring you up to make you see; help you understand because I know I cant go back to how I used to be. But I know that you can come up; because I did it. All it takes is independence and a lot of realisation. Im grateful to my parents for giving me the means to achieve and see reality; but at the same time I regret leaving you behind because it means I cant come back to be with you and to be in us. The only way it could work would be if you met me, and that’s all Ive tried to do. You say that ive shown were not worth it and that ive convinced you, but I know that the fact that im still sitting here, trying to make you see, shows how much I still want it to work and be.

I don’t know what I would have done if I hadn’t met him. I was actually with someone else at the time, someone who gave me anything I wanted and more. I had gone away for a weekend with my girlfriends from home, it was one one their birthdays I think, I think that was why I was there. Her parents had a holiday home there, by the sea, and we had all piled in two cars and made a girlie roadtrip for the weekend. But that wasn’t where my story started, I was 20 by then, and a lot had happened.

I grew up in a nice house, in a nice suburb. I had a nice mum and dad, and two younger brothers. If I had said to them that I was a perfectionist, they would have laughed and my dad would have made a joke. They don’t really know my story. I learnt, at about 14, that no-one talks about feelings in my nice house, with my nice family, in the nice suburb of London. I went to an okay primary school, it was our local one, and all the local children went there. I was an only child until I was 6, and having someone else, my new brother, a new baby, in the house meant less attention for Sarah. I was excited at first, I know that because I remember really wanting a brother or sister, because I was always bored by myself. I had a nice childminder, a devout Christian, a really nice lady. I didn’t like going to her house, her nice house. Both my parents worked, and I recall feeling like I was putting them out by my existence. I went to my childminder every day, and was picked up later when my parents finished work. In her house, I was only allowed to watch Playdays, no other TV was allowed. I drank orange squash, and ate digestive biscuits. No chocolate ones, just plain because they were wholesome weren’t they? They were healthy, weren’t they? I was allowed to drink tea, from a very early age, because we were a nice English family, weren’t we? My childminder let me have one sugar in my tea. My mother has always been against this, it was the one thing she wasn’t happy about. She had vetted all of the local childminders, and decided this one was best. I know now that she felt guilty about leaving me with this nice woman while she was at work, and so you see, picking the right woman to do her job as mummy was very important to her.

I hated being left alone then, and that is something that has stuck with me for my life. I would refuse to do anything by myself. I used to dread the mornings, where I would get taken and left at her house. I used to have naps then. I hated those too. I used to lay in the travel cot, looking up at the ceiling in her nice, suburban house, wondering why I had to sleep when I wasn’t tired. I hated being put to sleep, or even to bed. Once, in my own room, I was sent to bed, and climbed back out, onto my windowsill, but then realised I couldn’t get back down. I sat there for hours, frightened to call my parents up to help, because I thought they would be angry at me for being difficult.

I wouldn’t do anything by myself, ever. Even if I was at a restaurant and needed the toilet, if no-one would come with me, I would hold it. I didn’t want to get up and for people to look at me. I hated people looking at me, even if it was just a glance. Things would have been much better if I could have been invisible, and i used to wish I held this secret power, so that I could hide away, just not be noticed. I didn’t want to do anything, I just wanted to observe what everyone else was doing, without the world seeing me.

I wasn’t the sort of person who would draw attention to myself, quite the opposite. I was the quiet, well behaved one at school. Underneath, I was very competitive, I still am. Throughout my time at primary school, I made aims, I made targets for myself, which I had to reach, without failure. Failure wasn’t an option. I would pick someone, a girl, and I would make it my goal to beat them at absolutely everything. In class, I would sit near them, and I would do better, I would win. I was going to be better than them at everything.

My parents always emphasised the importance of doing well at school, not just well, but better, the best. Be the best, win at everything. Grades meant everything. I wanted to please them so much, and I was terrified of failure, and letting them down, because that made them angry. Be Better Sarah, you need to do better, as well as you can possibly possibly do, they would say. I would show them my work, thinking that I would prove to them how good I was, how clever and good a daughter I was, wanting to prove that I was everything they had wanted, and they would tell me that what I had shown them was not good enough, ‘its good, sarah, but it could have been better’.

My fear of failure was something that I carried with me. In hindsight, I hate it, but where I would be without it, I don’t know. It has pushed me to achieve. My mum always said that ‘a little bit of stress is a good thing.’

When the time came to move to secondary school, I took the entrance exam of the good school nearby, and missed it by two marks. I said I didn’t want to go there anyway, and to be honest, that wasn’t a lie. I didn’t mind about where I went in terms of environment, or who else was there, but I did care about failing the test. I had failed. I think that was the first thing in my life which wore me down. That one time I failed when I was 12.

Only 3 or 4 kids from my class got into that good school, out of 30. Most went to the bad school, and about 10 went to the school that was okay. That was where I went too. The popular girl in my class at primary school had long blonde hair, and was skinny and pretty, although I never noticed her skinniness at this time. She also went to the okay school.

On the first day, the girls from my primary who were at this ok school all huddled in the cold September morning, waiting for our first day at big school to start. I was dropped off by my next door neighbour, my parents were working. One of the girls said I was pretty, she looked me in the face and said ‘you’re so pretty, Sarah, you have a really striking face. You could be a model, you know. You look like that Sophie ellis-Bextor, and she’s a model and a singer.’ I don’t remember what we were talking about before that, all I remember is her comment. The popular girl looked up, taking her head out of the shelter of her collar on her new school coat, and said ‘I think that sophie ellis-bextor looks like the Aliens out of men in black.’ Giggles, followed, and I remember my face heating up as I looked at the tarmac of the big, new-school playground. There were people all around us, new people who would be in my year, going through secondary school with me. As the bell went, I breathed a silent sigh of relief, and as I looked up, and the huge blocks of classrooms, I felt incredibly small. I wanted to go to the toilets and lock myself in a cubicle and hide.

Ironic; I sat in the shower shaving my legs. The music from next door played on. It was our song; from the past. We had a talk; resulted in laying our friendship to rest. I talked with the present too; about many things; including sex. I had wanted to there and then. The door was banging although shut, and the wind howled around the 8th floor; hugging the windows and seeping inside. It was irritating. Silence should have been all around, except for the sound of kisses; meaningful kisses. But it wasn’t the case. I was in Indian Rose jeans and nothing else but skin. Ironic; the past has paid for them. He had himself push me up against the door, stopping the banging. Kissing became the only sound breaking our silence. He said he was worried. I wasn’t; for me it had been a week now; right there where we were standing. Ironic; it was a place of the past. The present filled the shoes of the past perfectly; although they were tight. His ambition exceeded the priors. He had brought about good changes, yet stepped into the role, naturally gracefully. I had tried before, and failed. We had persevered through much, but patience ran while we walked together. Now, the present was trying to run, whilst patience walked slowly behind. “Good things come to those who wait” I had told him. He agreed; but it wasn’t agreeable with him. When did patience stop being a virtue?

Why’d you feel like sorrow, with the words you’d borrowed from the only place you’ve known? It had become our downfall; we could have spent all night blaming one another, and everyone else for that matter, but to no avail. I had tried on Tuesday; shown you how low I can go; I had sunk further than before for his sake. It hadn’t worked, of course. It never really has. Oldest trick in the book. Useless. So the story goes ; we had drank on Monday, argued until Tuesday, Broken up before Wednesday, ignored it all through to what was almost Thursday, but hadn’t quite succeeded because we’d drunk throughout. Starting small, growing with time. We all seem to need the help of someone else, to fill that void. I had wanted to go to somewhere else, to find the help. But the community that is here made it hard. Impossible, infact. So Score it was. Wednesday night and the early hours of Thursday, brought further drama. Tuesday I spent a while crying down the phone to him, but once again to absolutely no avail. “You’re flogging a dead horse” he had said when I tried to force his emotions to flow. I had sunk to the depth of my emotions to ease his stubborn streak, hoping to pull him back to our level. After that I gave up. I cried a little longer than I wanted, but Wednesday night I was ready and willing to go on a ‘break-up-with-one,make-up-with-another mission’. And by 2 AM Thursday morning, the scoreboard read 2-nil to the home team. There was further independent drama involving the extra two additions.

I stumbled down the dark streets of Bath; with far too much alcohol in my system. Three guys were following me; one group of 2, followed by a single one. I was almost paraletically drunk thanks to an hour of playing “I have never..” in Rev’s with my fresher Norwood family of Level 8. I had been annoyed since we’d been to Morrison’s the day before. It hadn’t been what I had imagined; colder, harsher, distant and unknown to me. I left it at that until I walked back to his following our usual Monday night. It had been Rev’s, before a walk to Caddies, which I still have no recollection of. So, if I was bad at that point, you can imagine what I had been like later on when I called him saying I wanted to see him. I left the club, took off my heels, and attempted to find his house. I was aware that there were some guys following me, and I quickened my pace. They were shouting at me, and being “silly” (that’s his word, not mine) I turned to face them. Luckily for me (perhaps God liked me that particular day) they were merely concerned and asked if I was okay by myself. I had told them I was, but they insisted on walking behind me until I found his house, “just to make sure I was okay.” I had gotten to his, eventually, and the world was still spinning through my eyes. He was sober, which suited me fine. After a while of comforting amongst other things, we had a chat. “We want different things” was the jist. I refuse to write what was said, because it hurt. So unsettling infact, that I got back out of the comfort of his bed, and got dressed again. I had felt marginally more sober, but the fact that I had my dress and my jumper on inside out, and the way I couldn’t work out which shoe went on which foot, screamed otherwise.
“Im going back up to campus. Is that okay?” “What if I said I didn’t want you to go?”
“Tough shit.” “What if I said I wasn’t going to let you leave?” “Well I don’t see you getting out of bed and standing infront of the doorway, so it looks like im going.”
After that, nothing else filled the air, except for me desperately feeling my drunken way about the spinning room. In the hall way, after four very challenging flights of stairs, I called the cab. Impressively, I remembered the number off the top of my head. (Thank fuck because it wasn’t in my phone book.) Cab arrived, and I cried up the hill.

I pulled into uni, and saw the others getting off the orange bus. I paid the cabbie (who must have been in a state of shock after seeing me wearing my labels on the outside) £6 for the delights of the evening. A high price to pay after the amount I paid in tears. There was no txt or call with regard to this drunken girls welfare, but it didn’t matter because her soul sister was there, fabulous as ever. They picked up the pieces together, before the events of the next afternoon blew it all away again. He had come round, sat in the chair. I had my duvet draped over me, like some kind of shield from any words said. “We want different things” arose again, a few times, mostly from my mouth, and that was that. I had cried a bit more, and then attempted to bring him back around on the phone. I sunk as low as I can go, trying to ease his stubborn streak, but to no avail. “Just stop it” he said. “You’re flogging a dead horse.” And again, that was that. I had gone as low as I can go, but his stubborn side was stronger than my persuasive talents. So once more, her soul sister came upstairs, and once more, she picked up the shards, gave out Marlborough lights, while I glued them back together and smoked every single one all too willingly. That was the worst day since I had come to Bath. Not only was I hung-over beyond belief, I also had 3 hours sleep.

Despite it all, I made the 9.15 that Tuesday, for the first time in a long while. Wednesday morning, we went to Twickenham to scream “I’m team bath til’ I die” whilst getting slightly drunk. He sat in front of us, which is absolutely typical. Of a good few thousand seats, It would be the one almost directly in front of me. I swear that would only happen to me. After a while, we exchanged a few mouthed words, and didn’t see each other until Score that night. I was fully prepared. I had done all the crying I needed to do, all the talking, and all the smoking. So we went, I was already wasted (thank you so much girls). It was nothing but fun; I had had 3 years of putting on a front in a situations worse than this, so I figured he was damn right when he came up to me and said “you’re playing the game very well indeed.” I had asked him “what are you trying to do?” to which he replied “I’m flogging the same horse you were.” Unnecessarily, I spat “Well, like you said, It’s a dead horse. And its decaying.” Oh the comedy caused by alcohol..

By the end of the night, from what I can recall, the score board still read something around 2-nil to the home team. That in itself had brought some individual drama all of its own, but that wasn’t revealed until Thursday afternoon. There had been one guy, followed by another later on. I had no idea of the consequences of my (and their) drunken antics. I went home that night wearing one of the shirts of the first team; but I went up the stairs of Norwood alone. My phone rang a few times in the next few hours. It was a blast from the past, nothing to do with any of the events of this week; this blast from the past was just drunk. We still exchanged words now and again, but nothing more. I had left that past for the present (or ex-present now), and now he wanted me to go over to his. I said no, and told him I was sleeping. I woke up the next morning; I got off lightly considering the amount I had drunk. Minimal headache.

Next day, (Think we’ve reached Thursday now) I had a meeting with Chris, about the fashion show; and so spent the afternoon drinking archers and trying on Bikini’s. It eased the hangover. I had seen one of the 2 points scored the night before at Score walking down the parade, but hadn’t said anything. In contrast; I practically ran away. I left him a message later, apologising for my appauling behaviour of the night before (and for running away).
It became comical then, as he claimed didn’t know what I was apologising for. Having dug myself a ridiculously deep hole, I then was forced to explain that I was sorry for pulling his best friend, 20 minutes after him. Try admitting that and keeping a straight face. He didn’t seem to mind though; I hadn’t even known that they knew each other. It wasn’t until Thursday morning that I had surfaced from my bed, and spoken to Howwie that the extent of the compromising position I was now in was revealed. Howwie had sarcastically congratulated me on my achievements of the night before, and told me they were best friends. They also knew the very recent ex. Quite well it turned out. “I have never seen anyone kiss anyone else so passionately as you were last night..” “Do you know if (the ex) saw?” “Oh yes. I was standing next to him..He didn’t look too pleased..” Uh oh. I wasn’t sure whether he was annoyed at me or not; until he later called me a name I shan’t repeat, then told me I was a “rugger Hussy” which led me to hang up the phone on him. He called back, apologised. I apologised. Then saw him Friday morning, and ignored him.

Later that day, the girls and I were sitting by the lake in the sun. The boys were playing twister. One of the points scored from Wednesday night came down to meet me. I had bought him a pint and had been sitting and waiting. He came, eventually, and we had talked. 5 minutes later, his best friend (& the other point from Wednesday night) also arrived at the lake. That was not meant to happen. As if things weren’t comical enough already.. I knew how bad timing always treated me. He hadn’t come over to us though, he had gone and sat somewhere else. In sight, but not in reach.

After that, I had returned home when I bumped into Boyd. He lives with me.” Oh, Sarah, were you okay walking by yourself on Monday night? I Saw you walking by yourself leaving Caddies, obviously you were very (Very) drunk. There were these two guys following you; did you know? Well, I was a bit worried about you so I walked behind them a little way, just to make sure you were okay..” That was the third mystery walker. Oh god. If I hadn’t been so wasted, I’d have probably felt and resembled the leader of a Girl Guide (or a Scout) pack. You have to laugh really.

Friday night we weren’t going out. I was still recovering from an over-exuberant first week back. But we went anyway. And, once more, we poisoned ourselves with excessive amounts of alcohol amongst other things. I had heard from both points from Wednesday night, but one more so than the other. And we were still talking. I had hoped he wasn’t annoyed at me for my actions on Wednesday, and as it turned out he wasn’t; he stayed on campus Friday night. He had driven up at half 3; and I had met him. It was easy going; and talkative which is always a good sign. Were still messaging now. And it’s all happened bloody quickly. Within 6 days, I had lost one and gained one, possibly two. I had had 3 hangovers which had all blended into one big mess, and had done minimal amounts of work. If it carries on, there probably wont be much done…its all in the name of fun. I could begin rambling on about priorities now, but I won’t. Im fully aware that that would be incredibly hypocritical, and well, personally, I think I’ve dug myself enough holes this week. The next one I dig will only serve one purpose. And that will be for me to hide in…

Confusion. It was everywhere. We had been watching Sex and The City. We had tried to give up smoking today, and had failed again. We ordered pizza; I was in Arsenal training shorts, Uggs and Chris’ T-shirt. As we walked to pick it up, he was just there. Just standing there. My heart sank. I was unsure as to why; whether it was because I had no make-up on, or because we were so complex. We had ‘agreed’ to just be friends. I wanted to. He said he wanted to. There have been so many words unspoken, yet it was so unclear. I had thought it was clear; I had wanted someone else who I was meant to still want. I had then given him up, for someone else. Someone else who I was now meant to still want. It was all a state, was all a bur of confusion. She returned home from the pub to us; claiming her ex had asked her back. I offered her a cigarette to stop the shaking of her hand. Tension; a result of confusion? A denied confusion led to an admitted tension. Her denial had seemingly ended, and her confusion replaced with certainty. It was a product of excitement, not the answer she was seeking out. It was an emotional high, gave butterflies so harsh you find it literally hard to breathe. I knew what always followed such an emotional high; it was such an emotional low.

It was a window of the past. This time it was me, sitting, listening. Watching someone else’s hand shake; cigarette propped between two fingers whilst picking at the nails on her other hand. Offering opinions to someone, desperately seeking some kind, any kind, of approval. She had butterflies and a racing heart; making her anxious. It was a sure sign that her mind was in an irrational way, yet a happy one. In situations like this, you feel you should offer rational threads into her ears. I tried, and failed myself and my conscience again. I believed in her; her ideas and her butterflies. I wasn’t so sure I trusted him enough to lay them to rest; for him to stop the beating of their wings against her stomach lining. Passion; it should be acted upon and a feature of anyone’s relations. But uncertainty was always intertwined with the passion I saw here and the passion I’d seen through my own eyes. Passion was all about wrongness, danger; and spontaneity was the product of this. Was this really an example of passion or was it just lust? That would depend on whether lust was just an appreciative measure of someone finally coming round and giving in to what you want. He was forbidden, and the passion had been slowly brewing up inside. It had been for months. He had made her cultivate passion, just like a cocoon inside; now ready to hatch. As he confessed he wanted her back, they did just that. After months of hatred, forbidden danger, and uncertainty of feeling, the cocoons had enough energy to hatch and beat their new found wings against her stomach wall; matching the rate of her heart and the speed of her shakes with ease. She was going to see him in the morning, she had decided; and I knew that no matter how many hours we spent talking her against it, no matter how many cigarettes she smoked in this time, she was hell-bent on going. She had cried panic at Two-Thirty in the morning, and we all know that when one person cries panic, everyone around does too. We were, quite rightfully, worried. Highs and lows constitute an addiction. Addiction leads to habit; and the habits of my past were something I was still working on. Whilst one battle was ending here, another was about to begin for her.

The Aftermath came the next morning. There it was. The emotional low. Black and white, on a piece of paper tucked under my door. It turned out she hadn’t gone after all. “Phil=Bastard.” That was all it said. She was still out, so the result of her panic was yet to be revealed to us. Perhaps she had listened to my rational threads after all, but her note begged to differ; it was clear that whoever had been the rational ‘threader’ for the opposition had done a better job than I had. My rationality hadn’t rubbed off on her; but Phil, whether it was his rationality or someone else’s, it had stopped the butterfly farm inside her stomach. Why does love mean irrationality? Is life too boring without irrational behaviour? If this is true, do we create our own emotional drama to spice it up for ourselves? We sleep, we work, we eat and we sleep again. Is modern life so mundane that we will go to the extent of fucking ourselves up, just to create some kind of drama in our lives?

Paranoia, for example. The worry that someone you care for is caring about someone else whilst caring for you. It is ironic; in doing this, you often result in pushing them away, whilst the very reason you worry in the first place is because you care too much; so much that it hurts. It’s the strange irony that arises when abuse attracts you rather then repels you. The cheating actions of your other half lead to your paranoia; stemming from you being too scared to loose them to, maybe to ‘another.’ If there is ‘another’, for them, whether in the past or suspected in the present, this is where paranoia leads to isolation. If ‘another’ is a pretty girl or a beautiful boy, the paranoia artist looses trust in people around, meaning their inner-circle becomes limited to that cheating, abusive, yet deeply loved, other half. Throughout this whole process, the friends who are continuously trying to thread you with rationality get fed-up and resent brews from all sides; you for them not being accepting and them for you clearly being stupid. The emotional drama of your dependency on someone else, i.e. the abusive other, has its highs and lows, becomes an addiction, and, after the addiction dies, the irrational habits live on, reminding you off the emotional kicks you think you need, but no longer have.

You know it reaches time for rehab and move on when you feel that you may as well search for those highs, no matter how bad the lows are; because, if you don’t, life will all just be one big low. This is the problem for many recovering addicts, to have to force themselves to remain rational, and level headed, long enough for the longest, and last, low to pass. Especially when you can’t remember what rationality is. All you can see is the rationality of those around you. You have also forgotten boredom, because, to you, rationality is masked with boredom. Why boredom? Because they are living between the highs and lows- they are living in a balance. There is no addiction. There is happiness; self-induced happiness. Not false, not planted there by an abusive other. Not dependant on the actions of someone else. Perhaps only some people will create their own emotional drama in order to overcome the mundane. If you think you could be one of these, stop. Look and listen. Those around you are being rational. You, on the other hand, are being irrational. It’s black and white; happy highs and awful lows? Or just happiness?

Game day changes week to week. Sometimes it’s a Friday, others a Saturday. People always ask if I get nervous beforehand. “Not really”, I say. Its only when he’s nervous that I get a bit twitchy, and he’s pretty good at hiding it so it’s not really a problem for us. It’s a big game today, and 30 of his friends and family have come over to watch, so that adds a bit to the pressure. The pressure to perform is the biggest hurdle. If you’re good, people expect higher of you- that’s hard to sustain; arguably impossible. It is exciting; I normally have no finger nails left after a game- which for someone in my position is seen as a bit of a no-no; ‘wags’ are supposed to have long, glossy nails aren’t they?? They do in the magazines I read anyway. I never really watched rugby before him, my ex boyfriends weren’t the tough sort (or so he’d say). I do miss him on game day. He’s there physically, but mentally he’s elsewhere. That’s the con of being with him. If I didn’t love him, I couldn’t hack it. It’s the quiet times; when were at home, watching Jerry Springer, when I get to snuggle in my little nook between his shoulder and his neck whilst he eats his way through a family-sized multipack of walkers crisps, or when I curl up in his xxl jumpers on a cold day, when I make us supernoodles. I’ve always been a bad sleeper; I suffered from insomnia, have always tossed and turned all night until my anger tired my body out that I could fall asleep, then was unable to get up until 3 in the afternoon. So I always sleep in longer than him. It’s when I wake up early In the morning with the feel of his soft skin all warm on my back and he kisses my head and squeezes me. That’s when the cons become worthwhile, the press interest, the fans comments, all fade. The snobby middle aged men at the game the previous week, who sit in leather hats (which smell highly offensive when wet) and bitch about his game, whilst I have to sit and listen to their ignorant opinions,. On a Saturday night, if you were out at a bar, if someone said something negative about your partner- that’s how fights start- people will stand up for their partners and quash those comments, sometimes with their fist. I have to sit and listen, not saying a word. At the end of a game, when the jolly men leave the Rec to go home or to the pub, I wait, patiently, for my man to come to me for comfort. They will take their leather hats home, and forget all about their comments, but I remember. They may even have the nerve to share their nasty thoughts on the internet. Whilst they forget all about it, and head off, go home, to their wife, their kids, their job on the following Monday morning, I am still in this life. If you’re good at something, people expect higher of you- that’s hard to sustain, arguably impossible. The men and their hats are successful, good at what they do; but they wouldn’t have always been so. There would have been bad days, weeks, years, even, when their careers weren’t quite so glossy. They wouldn’t be able to sustain success indefinitely either. But are they still remembering? I take the cons, because our own pro’s make up for it. They wouldn’t, if I didn’t love him, and it’s that balance that gives me the strength to be with him, day in day out. You can’t help who you fall in love with, although, believe me, I tried. It took him a while to convince me that this was for me, that he was for me. Too many of them are for a number of girls; not just the one special one. There are also more than enough girls to go around when you’re built like that. Mind you, there is definitely enough muscle on them to go around all of the girls, but there is also enough stress and pressure. It takes time and effort to find somebody, just the one person, who can deal with the exceptional stress that comes with the welcome amount of muscle.