". . . just watch out for your heart."

I'm trying to figure out a way to write this entry without sounding retarded or lovesick, yet failing. Basically I miss Holly. I haven't seen her since Sunday and I am filled with this odd sensation as brain chemicals, up until now not allowed to mix, mingle and blend to form a cocktail that tells my brain that it is experiencing something akin to love. It is an odd sensation because I've gone to great lengths to disassociate myself from my feelings for Holly as she's been unavailable. Now that I'm allowed to feel these feelings, I hardly know what to do with myself. It's strange when friend feelings convert to romantic feelings.

To further illustrate how much of a saddo I've become, I keep anxiously watching the clock knowing that at 7:30 pm tonight I'll be meeting Holly and her parents for dinner and drinks. I'm not anxious that I'll be meeting her parents -- I've met them a couple times before and they LOVE me -- I'm anxious because I haven't seen her since Sunday. In the three days since I've seen her, part of me wonders if what happened between us in Provincetown really happened -- if she won't say tonight, "Sorry, I can't go through with this." But of course I'm just being irrational. So until this evening I'll torture myself a little knowing that she ended her email to me yesterday with, "Looking forward to seeing you."

See? This is the most retarded entry ever. I should be shot.

"Do you have any kids?"

Oh good! Picked up by another man, though this time on my way to work this morning.

"Good morning, miss." It's one of the carwash guys that I usually walk past. They like to ogle me -- probably because of my spectacular badonkadonk. Sometimes they say hi and I manage a response in that very flat non-commital way that says that I'm polite enough to say something back, but I'll be going now. Normally I have my iPod on and ignore them, but not this morning.

I turn around. "Good morning." I'm all flat and non-commital and continue on my way.

"I've been watching you." This said not as a threat, but as an acknowledgement of my apparent beauty. He starts to follow me as I round the corner towards Flatbush Avenue. "What's your name?"

"Rouge." This is awkward and I just want to be left alone, but I'm a nice person. I don't feel threatened, just inconvenienced. If he told me his name, I don't remember it.

"Are you on your way to work?" He continues to follow me.

"Yeah."

"I change oil at the carwash over there. What do you do?"

"I'm an art director."

"Do you live around here?"

"Just over on Xxxx Street.

"Are you married or have a boyfriend?"

"Yes -- I mean I have a boyfriend."

"I see." He looks me up and down like I'm Thanksgiving dinner. "How old are you?"

"I'll be 28 in November."

"Any kids?"

"Oh god, no."

"Alright. Alright." He looks me up and down again. Apparently I've been saying all the right things -- young, hot, employed, no babies, and no baby daddies. We're at the corner now. "So I'll see you around, right?"

"Um, okay. I have a boyfriend, you know."

"I don't bite," he says with a smile.

Well thank fuck for that. I'm this close to shaving off all my hair and dressing in combat fatigues and a t-shirt that says, "Dyke."

"What happens in Provincetown stays in Provincetown."

It was the theme of our trip to Cape Cod -- What happens in Provincetown stays in Provincetown -- promising that all the shenanigans would never be spoken of once we returned to Brooklyn. It was with this bacchanalia like spirit that three Lesbian Club friends, Holly, and myself set out on our first Big Gay Weekend Vacation and drove 8 hours to the gay mecca that is Provincetown, Mass. Holly and I would be sharing a hotel room to ourselves while the other three would be further down the main drag at another hotel. I had a feeling all along about this weekend -- a feeling that something was going to happen. The bacchanalia like spirit only confirmed what I had divined.

Now I know I made an oath, but you all, my faithful blog readers, deserve the story as it unfolds -- especially since it involves me, an Unnamed Person (UP)* from Lesbian Club . . . and Holly.

Get your mind out of the gutters. It wasn't a threesome. It wasn't even a some. What happened was UP drunkenly made out with Holly at a bar last night. And I, having spotted this from the other side of the deck, was not happy. In a very Oh No She Didn't moment, I went to the bartender, got my fourth drink of Maker's Mark, and marched to the table where they were sitting and obnoxiously plopped myself down before them.

"Hi," I announced loudly with a smile on my face, whisky in hand, and a look in my big brown eyes that flashed two things. (1) Don't fuck with me. (2) I just might have to kill you.

Let me explain something here. Holly is my very good friend. Holly is an adult and can make out with whomever she wants. However there is an unspoken rule that Holly is off limits to Lesbian Club members and I've made it common knowledge that I have very strong feelings for her. Yes, nothing has ever seemed to want to develop between us and I long ago resigned myself to the fact that nothing probably would save for the drunken kissing at my birthday last year. BUT she's still off limits to Lesbian Club members because if ANYONE is going to be making out with her, it's me.

And that's what I did. I leaned in and kissed Holly like we were the stars of a movie. UP looked onward probably wondering what the hell was happening. It was my way of telling Holly what I haven't been able to tell her for so long while reasserting my claim on her.

I tackled.

I should also explain in all fairness to those involved the levels of blame here: UP drunkenly kissed Holly. She apparently missed the memo that Holly is off limits. Holly kissed UP back in that way that is drunkenly rationalized as, Oh I guess we're kissing now. I suppose I'll go along with it. The kiss itself means nothing, but all sorts of invisible rules are broken. All is eventually forgiven, but let us return to that table in Provincetown.

Shamed and wanting to avoid being collateral damage in the ass kicking that was about to commence, Holly takes the hotel room key and leaves the bar. It is just me and UP in a showdown. I give her The Look again. She cowers slightly. But since we are also adults and I've never kicked someone's ass, we talk. She apologizes. I explain where I am coming from. UP can get any girl she wants, but she chose the one girl that she wasn't allowed to kiss. She says she didn't know that it was uncool to kiss her. She didn't know that I had feelings for her. She thought that there was nothing between us. Well technically yes there is nothing between us, but still.

To wrap up a long story, UP and I negotiate a peace and I state firmly that Holly is mine. With all our ducks in a row, we leave the bar to walk back to our respective hotels. I tell UP that she is forgiven and there is profuse apologizing as she doesn't want to ruin our friendship. As she walks away and I climb up the steps to my room, I am well aware that I've now got to deal with Holly and the issue that UP has abruptly forced to the surface.

Inside I find Holly up and watching a Japanese game show. She has been waiting for me and it's well after 1 am. Soon I'm sitting on the bed with her and apologizing for making a scene and say that I don't want to jeopardize the friendship. Holly apologizes for kissing UP and says that it meant nothing and that she has no feelings for UP. Then there's that awkward moment when we both know we're going to have to confess all our feelings. I already stated my intentions with my kiss -- a kiss born of fierce jealousy.

We're both drunk, but we both say what we've wanted to say for over a year. Perhaps it was the alcohol, but for once the words come easily. She thought I didn't have feelings for her anymore as I've been dating recently. I explain that I had to move on since she had been dating her married boss. She cringes and reiterates that they are not together anymore. She also says that the Boss was jealous of me knowing that I was a rival just as she was jealous of my relationships with Anne and Val. Then she says that she feels that we have always been meant to be together, but she needed to grow up first.

And then, when we have said what we need to say, she leans in and finishes the kiss that was started back in the bar. In the morning we wake up mercifully sober, a little hungover, slightly undressed, but aware that things have now changed between us.

"Even though I had a lot of whisky last night, I meant everything I said," I say to her.

"Even though I had a lot of beer last night, I meant everything I said," she responds.

"What do we do?"

"I don't know. I guess we take things slow."

* * *

Back on August 4, I wrote:

"I should note that she's been flirting with me hard core of late and I feel almost certain that given enough alcohol, something may happen."

How astute of me. Whisky + beer + lesbians + drama = something happening.

* Maire, I know you're probably reading this and can figure out who UP is as you certainly know her, but by reading this entry you have unwittingly agreed to the vow of What happens in Provincetown stays in Provincetown.

"You mean Whitey McWhiteville?"

I'm back from Seattle! And if you were reading my last post, it practically took an intercession from God and all the angles and saints to get my fat ass and a rickety 757 into the air. I would vow never to fly American Airlines again if it weren't for the $300 voucher burning a hole in my pocket. Amsterdam here I come!

As expected, I was met with a small tidal wave of things to do once I got back to work. I warned my coworkers that I was (a) working off of five hours of sleep and (b) still on West Coast time. I even brandished my venti-ish cup of coffee for emphasis while missing my over-caffeinated halcyon days of double tall lattes at Moolicious. Ah, Seattle.

Wednesday was also the day that I was not looking forward to for other reasons. Wednesday was the day that I was supposed to tell my bosses that I was quitting. Instead I spent the day waiting for the "right moment" -- mainly the moment where I wasn't going to throw up from nerves and the moment where I didn't have a full audience. Why was I so nervous to quit a job I've been wanting to leave for the last year or so? Latent Catholic guilt? I know they're going to be fucked when I leave -- my three and a half work days in Seattle underscored this.

The problem with working yourself up over having to do something unpleasant is that most of the unpleasantness comes from the psychological build up. The day became like a Band-Aid that I was trying to psyche myself into ripping off -- the quicker you do it, the quicker the pain is. Instead I, like the masochist that I am, decided to strategize. That's where the the whole idea about the "right moment" came in. Okay, I'll do it at 11 am. Wait, maybe after lunch. No, my horoscope clearly says to wait till the moon moves into Virgo and that won't be until 3 pm. Yes! We have a plan!

So much for that plan. Multiple "right moments" came and went and I didn't have the balls to take advantage of them.

By 5:45 pm, my boss had gone. Still left with a Band-Aid of a problem, I decided to go for another tactic -- tell my remaining coworker knowing that telling him was like ripping up a corner of the Band-Aid. In other words, telling him was like a less scary preview of how things are going to go with my boss.

He displayed the proper shock and we talked a little about the situation. I felt really bad as he's handling a huge work load that won't get better when I leave. He agreed that I must tell my boss in person instead of via email (so much for the coward's way). This brings me back to tomorrow and the remaining Band-Aid -- I just need to rip the fucker off and nevermind the pain. Better to get it over with.

Oh, but I'd rather be a coward . . .

* * * Update * * *

I did it. Finally. It took nearly a full hour of psyching myself up and in the end I wasn't yelled at as I had irrationally feared. Instead I was warmly congratulated, reminded that that they were very happy with my work, and asked if there was an offer they could counter with. I said no thank you and that it was time for me to try something new. So there you go. The cat is out of the bag.

". . . went to Hooters instead."

For the second time in a week, I found myself in Texas. I had never ever been to the Lone Star State, so its quick reemergence in my life seemed a portent of doom. I wasn't supposed to be in Texas -- a fact alone that foreshadowed that my journey eastward was going to be less than smooth.

I had given up my seat on an overbooked direct flight in return for a $300 travel voucher. It seemed an easy trade -- $300 in lieu of of the comfort of a six hour flight moving purposely towards JFK. Instead I boarded a flight bound for Dallas/Ft. Worth where, after a three hour layover, I would switch to a flight for New York. Simple, yes? I consoled myself with the fact that my proposed January flight to Amsterdam was now all but paid for.

So there I was, in Texas, and with three hours to kill. I did what any good American would do -- shopped and ate. And then I did what I do best -- found the bar.

If an airport can be judged by the quality of its drinking establishments -- nay, the beers on tap -- the C Terminal at the Dallas/Ft. Worth airport hinted at a dismal layover. Oh how I lamented the missed opportunity to sample the microbrews in the SeaTac Airport. Instead I spied oversized former frat boys in sports bars watching television while nursing a Bud Light -- quite possibly my idea of hell. The C Terminal had all the charm of a bunker with an architectural style that harkened back to an age when concrete was a fashionable building material. I immediately hopped on the monorail to the D Terminal where my connecting flight was to depart from. What I found pretty much summed up what I expected from Texas -- a mini-mall surrounded by flight gates. And if anyone were to doubt that everything is bigger in Texas, my "pint" of Sam Adams appeared in a full 22 ounce glass. I could hardly lift it.

Maybe Texas wasn't so bad at all . . . Oh wait, just kidding.

To sum up the rest of my journey, I could only describe it as misery. Three hour layover + 1 hour on plane + deplaning due to engine problems + waiting 1 hour for a new plan to arrive from San Juan + waiting 1.5 hours on the runway for storms to pass = me not getting into JFK until 12:50 am.

Sweet Jesus, I wanted to kill someone.

"I make the noise on this street!"

Pulled into one of Seattle's ubiquitous drive through esspresso shacks -- this one called Moolicious -- the barista asked how I was liking the city. "Good," I answered, thinking that in three short days I had managed to drive all over the city -- Ballard, Greenwood, Freemont, Mt. Ranier. If I had to sum up my impressions of the Emerald City, I would say it's small, clean, spread out, and looks as though it went through a major growth spurt sometime in the late 80s. Most of the buildings I saw -- apart from the residental areas -- look as though they were built sometime in recent memory. This was especially evident in Belltown, a "hip" area located somewhere northish of the downtown area full of new condos and office buildings. Living in New York, I'm used to old buildings in various states of repair, trash, people up at all hours, and density. And as Dennise and I wandered around Capitol Hill Sunday night looking for good times, we found that many streets are desolate after sundown.

So what have I done? Well apart from seeing far too much of I-5, I've driven to a volcano, drunk a lot of beers you don't see on the East Coast, watched a belly dancer while eating Moroccan food, and sought out black people. It's become a game of ours pointing out people of color in this rather white city because it's Dennise, a woman of color herself, who wants to move to Seattle. According to the demographic numbers, there are 52,000 African Americans living in Seattle. By our count, we think the number is closer to 32. If Dennise moves here, the number will rise to an all time high of 33.

Tomorrow my time on the West Coast ends when I board a rather early fight back to New York. I'll have to deal with reality -- namely my bank account and figuring out how to tell my bosses that I'm quitting. Till then, I'm going to finish my tea, read my book, and not think about reality.

"Do you want to have a chance to think it over?"

I got the motherfucking job!!!!!!!!!!!!

And they offered me 12K more than I am making now.

Huzzah!

But, fucknugget. When am I going to tell my bosses? I'm leaving tomorrow afternoon for Seattle. I guess when I am back on Wednesday? Also I'll have to learn Flash between now and the end of September.

"You got pretty eyes under those glasses."

What is it about the Atlantic Avenue/Pacific Street subway station? Why is it that I get picked up by men there? Though it has only happened twice, we all know that a trend starts with two.

My conversation with Chris started innocuously. We had a near collision as the flow of people narrowed before the stairs heading down to the Q train. He stopped and motioned for me to go before him. "Ladies first." I said sorry and hurried before him. That's where our conversation should have ended, but he's one of those guys who keeps making small talk after that invisible wall of anonymity has been breeched.

He asked me what book I was reading. He told me what book he was reading. Classic small talk. Then he proceeds with, "I like full figured women."

Okay, I know I have a badonkadonk, some junk in the trunk, back it on up like a U-haul truck, my humps. Whatever. I also have a D cup rack completing the whole collect-them-all T&A commemorative set. There's a certain badonadonk loving population that let their eyes linger a little a longer and have no qualms about stopping this woman as she tries to catch a Q train to let them know that, "they have it all in the right places." For some reason hearing this man say he likes a full figured women made me cringe in the way that Azrati, the Ethiopian man who was in love with me every time I visited the Black Cat in DC, once said, "Other men might not think you're beautiful, but . . ."

Sigh.

"I bet you have a boyfriend."

"Well . . ." I guess I could have lied to him and said yes his name is Ken and he lives in Greenwich Village and works in finance. Nice lie, but I didn't.

"I like a full figured woman."

"Uh . . ." Dude, I'm a lesbian.

"You got pretty eyes under those glasses."

It's late and I just want to be left alone. Actually I was really into my book and was looking forward to reading as I waited for my train. He lingered with my on the platform and asked for my number. I totally fake numbered him and gave him a false email address. He gave me his number and asked when was a good time to call.
Uh . . .

Sorry, Chris, you're not my type. You'll realize that when you try the number I gave you yesterday.

"Can you take a rain check three weeks from now?"

Fuck nugget is apparently my new catch all swear word. I have no idea where it came from and how it managed to infiltrate my swearing lexicon (another favorite is shit monkey). I don't even know what a fuck nugget is and I probably don't want to, but there you go.

Fuck nugget!

My plans for this evening have been rescheduled. Mysterious Blog Reader had to bail as something came up and seeing how both of us are traveling quite a bit in the near future, our beer fueled rendezvous will be postponed until September. Actually I'm quite bummed out as I was really looking forward to going to Burp Castle tonight -- one of my favorite places to drink in NYC. Instead I'll be bringing my bedroom/sitting room back to normal from the dinner party explosion that was last night. Something tells me that I'll also be sacked out on the couch and eating leftover ice cream cake for dinner.

Recently a lot more of my friends in NYC know that I have a blog. The paranoid part of me is slightly worried about this because the more anonymity is broken down the more likely the wrong people could find this blog -- eg, parents, employers, ex-lovers. Then there's the possibility that Mysterious Blog Reader and I might actually meet -- we did talk on the phone briefly this afternoon. So much for anonymity.

Now for that job interview I had this afternoon. It went well and they want references! So we'll see how things go. Fingers crossed.

"I imagine that the four days of silence are due, in part, to the dinner party."

Sorry for the long stretch. We'll play some madlibs while I compose my next entry.

I am _______. Yesterday I cooked dinner for _______ people. Later this afternoon, I have a _______. Then I'm supposed to meet up with a _______ who just so happens to read my _______ and created a Craigslist response to my dating manifesto.

You can only use the following words:

hungover
tired
job interview
woman
happy
beer
skateboard
blog
twelve

"Two days without a post?"

Two days, people. TWO DAYS. Are you in that much suspense? Well here you go:

• I had a second date on Tuesday that went well -- or as well as can be expected. Like I said previously, we had Indian and then went to see Little Miss Sunshine, which was excellent, if not a little cringeworthy. SNDG and I have a nice raport, but I can't figure out if it's friend raport or sexual raport. Guess we'll have to make out and see. Also there's the niggling question of whether her self identified bi-ness is "I've never kissed a girl, but would like to try it" kind of bi or "I've had both boyfriends and girlfriends" kind of bi. Guess we'll have to get drunk and find out.

• I somehow thought it was a good idea to cook a sitdown dinner for 10 people this coming Sunday. Those who have seen my apartment will find this undertaking humorous.

• I have a job interview on Monday. Yeah, baby! Time to leave the world of gastroenterology.

"Although with your parade of lesbians, can you blame me for getting confused?"

I am in a much better mood today. In fact that flare up of blind rage was confined to only the 2 o'clock hour of yesterday afternoon. Life is nothing but kittens and daffodils today because . . .

I have a date after work. A second date. With Saturday Date Night Girl. (Note to self: come up with a better acronym than SNDG.) We shall feast on Indian food and then go see Little Miss Sunshine.

I should also mention that after a parade of responses to my ad, the email exchanges have dropped off. I am down to one person whom I am trying to muster the enthusiasm to respond after the conversation drifted far into the cerebral -- eg, the merit of Shakespeare. In her defense, she's currently in England acting as some sort of camp counselor and recently traveled to Stratford, but the conversation is no longer fun. I don't mind cerebral, but I like conversations to be fun and cerebral.

As for the others, the girl who met me a week ago for Trivia Night has disappeared into the ether. The chef (?) I was talking to has seemingly wandered off. The others never responded after the initial email exchange. Ho hum. At least I have the my mysterious blog reader to converse with.

"She said you two decided to just be friends."

Generally I'm pretty meh about the whole Val thing. A month does not equal a whole lot of emotional investment even with the previous friendship. However somedays, I get REALLY PISSED.

Like today.

If I could emit the loudest roar that could be heard across five boroughs -- the kind of roar I heard when Italy won the World Cup, a fearsome roar that would let her and every last person know that I was very, very displeased -- I would. My vengeance would seek her out, traveling the Q line into Brooklyn and into Ditmas Park. A fear would creep into her like a slow malaise, the lights would dim, and a long maddening silence would forshadow the loudest roar not unlike a tidal wave sweeping along Flatbush Avenune. And thus would begin a hundred days of darkness and bad dating karma. Woman and children would weep and men would shake their fists at the sky.

Oh yes, I would.

But since I cannot and I only have this blog and my resourcefulness with words to describe my supreme irritation, I will instead leave all you readers with one piece of relationshp advice:

If you are dating someone -- man or woman -- and sleeping with them, it is HIGHLY uncool to just suddenly disappear. Return that phone call, return that email, and say what you have to say in person. Because to do otherwise is to be a coward.

"You're a wanker, number nine!"

When we last left our heroine, she was lounging around the house, fighting maggots, watching a movie, and dangerously late for her bus to DC.

If anything, I know myself pretty well. And if I need to be out of the house by 1 pm, I know that I need to be in the shower by 12 pm in order to keep on schedule. Instead I packed and watched the British Lesbian Rom-Com called "Imagine Me & You" (cute but seriously flawed). I panicked slightly when I made my way into the shower by 12:30 and only half packed. True panic set in when I was still blow drying my hair at 1:20. I had to get all the way to West 31st and 7th Avenue by 2 pm AND I still had to get $40 from the bank to buy my roundtrip bus ticket on the Jewish Bus. Oy vey!

By 1:45 pm, I was only just crossing the Manhattan Bridge on the Q Train. I looked down at my broken and bruised small toe and started coming up with a contingency plan. If the train puts me at 6th Avenue and West 34th, I still have to walk almost two crosstown blocks AND three blocks. Can I get there by 2 pm and get $40 out of the bank? My toe looked back at me angrily as I contemplated a hurried dash through tourists and office workers.

The clock on my cell phone read 1:54 by the Q Train rolled into 14th Street Union Square. There was no fucking way I was going to make that bus let alone get the money for the ticket. Okay, Plan B. Go to Penn Station and buy a one-way Amtrak ticket to DC. Expensive, but the price I have to pay for being lazy. So that's what I did -- bought a ticket for the 4:05 Metroliner to BWI and purchased Jeffrey Eugenides's "Middlesex" to pass the time. And now I'm stuck in Cow Country, Maryland for the weekend and helping my dad in his walker.

Good times.

"I'm going to remember this one . . . and bring it up when we're very drunk."

Sorry for the lack of OFAG updates. I came down with a dose of heat induced ennui in addition to a couple of busy days at work. So where did we leave off? Oh right, I was a popular girl.

I've been out every night this week -- Bryant Park on Monday for a movie, Trivia Night on Tuesday, Coney Island to see The Warriors on Wednesday, and drinks with Holly last night. I don't think I've had a face to face conversation with my roommate since sometime in July. And now I need to pack so I can catch a bus to DC. Instead I'm watching a movie and writing blog entries.

Now for the OFAG update. I've met two lovely people and a second date is in the works with Saturday Date Night Girl. Since I am going to be in DC this weekend, the second date will have to wait till I get back. Yay for dating normalcy!

Except . . . I found out that Holly is no longer dating her married boss. Yes folks, she's single. The girl that I had a missed connection with, spent most of 2005 in love with, and drunkenly made out with on my birthday is single. My head was spinning a little on Wednesday as I contemplated how the one barrier between her and I is finally gone. Dennise says I should jump her. I, in my infinite wisdom, have decided to aim for a laissez-faire approach. But I should note that she's been flirting with me hard core of late and I feel almost certain that given enough alcohol, something may happen.

Now I get to talk about how I broke my little toe on Wednesday by getting it caught in my office door. I'm nearly certain it's broken and it hurts like a bitch when I put my weight on it, but I can wiggle the toe. Does that mean it's not broken? Maybe I only sprained it as it doesn't hurt nearly as much as it did when I woke up on Thursday. And I noticed that it's bruised in one spot. Then again it could be dirt. No, no . . . it's definitely not dirt.

So it's been hot in New York? How hot you ask? Hot enough to breed maggots in the space between two dirty dishes in my sink. Let me say that that was one hell of a surprise when I went to do the dishes this morning.

"Your mind intrigues me and I enjoy the fact that you can form complete sentences in an artful manner."

Lesbians who have seriously flirted with me: 3
Lesbians who have seriously flirted with me who happen to be friends: 3
Lesbians tackled: 0
Lesbians taken off tackling list as would cause friendship implosion: 2
Responses to Dating Manifesto: 14
First dates: 1
Second dates: 0
Ex-flings spotted with their new girlfriends: 1
Lesbian p*rn DVDs borrowed from friend: 3

Well, July was an interesting month. Not only has it been a month and a half since I last saw Val, much less heard from her, but Saturday's date underscored that OFAG is moving in the right direction. And who knew I'd run into Anne with presumably her new girlfriend? Oh boy was that awkward!

In the meantime I can remind myself that Saturday Night Date Girl asked if I'd like to get together again. Also one of my CL repliers wants to get together -- possibly tonight. I heart being popular.

In other news, I'll be in DC this weekend (Howard County is a more accurate description) so if anyone would like to rescue me from Cow Country, Maryland, I will be free. Though I should mention that I do need to spend some quality time with my ailing father.

[ January's Update ] [ February's Update -- sort of ] [ March's Update ]
[ April's Update ] [ May's Update ] [ June's Update ]