Derange: The Pulpit

The Pulpit: 2nd Edition

Derange — Wed, 10 Dec 2025 17:51:20 GMT

Special thanks to Raazi Tea on this one. I was able to try their Indian Breakfast (now called English Breakfast) and it features a boldness and aroma my usual Lipton Black lacks. The founder, , also publishes a tea zine called “Leaves.”

Location: Chicago, IL

Temperature: 28° and snowy.

Morale: Working on it.

I wish the feeling of moving halfway across the country after quitting one’s job could be bought and sold. It’s liberating and invigorating, sparking a static sense of change which beckons a glorious (yet diminishing) vision of greener pastures. During my period of voluntary unemployment, ideas were given space to live and breathe, but, as I’ve found through multiple stints of chasing the spaces in between routine life, necessity trumps idealism. Which is why I must confess that over the past two months, since moving, I have not been able to focus on anything other than getting a job. It is true—cash rules everything. Back in New York, it fell from the sky and I saved it like a squirrel stashing nuts for winter. The bad news: winter has come. The good: I have found a job. So I’ll be working on getting this project back on track, starting off with this here column.

Blame it on the snow storms here in Chicago, but any optimism I expressed towards the media world has pretty much fizzled. I don’t want to play the game, nor do I think I’m internet savvy enough either way. But what I can do is write and publish stories from other writers, which will continue to be the main objective; anything beyond that is butter. Recently, we did this with Will Gendron’s piece about boxing in Reading, PA; Cam Crowell’s experience hooping at a festival in Oaxaca, Mexico; Mariel Ferragamo’s look at peacetime vs wartime Ukraine; and the two weeks I spent in SF poking around the AI boom.

Anyways, it was a great year for music. Rock is cool again; the UK is leading the way in rap; a cohort of cool kids are rising in Scandinavia; Justin Bieber made an amazing album; a growing polarization in country music between bros and troubadours has led to some impassioned projects. Here are my favorites from a year of lofty change.

Favorite Albums of 2025

Playboi Carti - MUSIC
Sword II - Electric Hour
Jim Legxacy - black british music
Bashfortheworld - Migo In America
Snuggle - Goodbyehouse
BabyDrill - Cry For Help
2hollis - star
Rex Laurent - Seller’s Remorse
Nine Vicious - Studio Addict
Justin Bieber - SWAG
YFN Lucci - ALREADY LEGEND.
Charley Crockett - Lonesome Drifter
Hunxho - For Us
Geese - Getting Killed
Tyler Childers - Snipe Hunter
Corbin - Crisis Kid
Morgan Wallen - I’m The Problem
Treety - Trick or Treat
Bickle - Gut Feeling
Curren$y - 7/30

Favorite Books I Read in 2025

All My Friends are Going to Be Strangers by Larry McMurtry
Willie, Waylon, and the Boys by Brian Fairbanks
Typee by Herman Melville
Just Kids by Patti Smith
The Paper Palace by Miranda Cowley Heller

Favorite Songs of 2025 (excluding anything from the albums list)

J4H$SiR - “TYPE STUFF”
feeble little horse - “This Is Real”
MexikoDro - “No Date”
YoungBoy Never Broke Again - “Finest”
Lola Young - “Messy”
Bay Swag & 42 Dugg - “Drank”
Kashus Culpepper feat. Marcus King - “Southern Man”
Lana Del Rey - “Henry, come on”
Pradabagshawty - “P wit Ha”
Erika de Casier - “December”
Kodak Black - “No Flaggin”
1300SAINT - “SOUTHSIDE FOREVER”
The Hellp - “Hot Fun”
fakemink - “Face to Face”
RobOlu - “100ONCANDLER”
Fimiguerrero & Reekz MB - “Tartan”
dexter in the newsagent - “Special”
Tony Shhnow - “Think Again”
Young Nudy - “BTA”
Whirr - “Days I Wanna Fade Away”
Wiley From Atlanta - “Don’t Look Up”
Neno Calvin - “Hush Mode”
Ella Langley - “Choosin’ Texas”
Kenny Mason - “A1”
Derby - “Jenny”

Playlist: https://music.apple.com/us/playlist/favorite-songs-of-2025/pl.u-MDAWoj9tGXkPZD

~~~

My year began in bed, as did the previous year, and probably the year before that. I was working on a senior thesis about Goth music, covered in the cotton entrails of my beloved Yankees pillow-pet, which remains, as I type this, splayed across my lap, withered and bleeding out. On my Twitter feed, in another tab, Cam Newton is admonishing Keon Coleman, a 22 year-old NFL player who enjoys cookies. “That was all cool,” he is saying, referencing his sideline antics. “But we give that grace to young players.” The first time I saw the clip, I remembered a moment, earlier this summer, when a gruff LIRR conductor looked at my “dependent” pass—Thanks, Dad—and told me that it was 2025: You are no longer in school, and so, we are no longer accepting that. (“We give that grace to young players.”) A month or so after that, I was wearing a spike-laden leather hat in Central Park, when my friend, who is very wise, glanced at my feet and asked me: “Have you considered buying new socks instead of Cyberpunk hats?” I really wanted to cry at my graduation ceremony. At the end, our evil chancellor, who is also very succinct, granted adulthood with the grace of a falling piano: “The ceremony is now over,” he said, and no tears came.

“Pats on the back are over with,” Newton is declaring on my Twitter feed, which is now playing the full video—not the 30-second TikTok clip, but the unedited, much funnier monologue. “You’re not a rookie anymore, brother.” If 2025 has meant anything to me, it is that I am no longer a rookie, and so the associated privileges—of dawdling, of dancing, of eating cookies—have expired. What have I done with this information? A few things: I now exclusively consume raw fish and pre-workout. When I do listen to music, which is rarely, it is dissonant and arrhythmic, which instills in my developing prefrontal cortex a disposition of eternal struggle. I do not “dance,” but when my body moves in accord with pleasurable frequencies, it is involuntary, and I flog myself before tearfully repenting, on my knees, under a freezing shower. There is no sugar in my home, as it is a distraction from the bitter truths I diligently seek.

I am kidding. Here are ten songs I listened to a lot this year.

Chemical - “Subliminal Arrow”
Rita P - “RRP”
Halloween - “Crown”
TOBACCO - “The Black Album”
Shiner - “Giant’s Chair”
Peace de Résistance - “You Are Absurd”
The Third Eye Foundation - “Sleep”
quannnic - “Prunesnail”
Phreshboyswag - “skinny jeans w the platform boots”
- ed note: read Sammy on phreshboyswag here: https://sammysworld.org/the-wrong-underground/
Double Virgo - “Nuggit Step Down”

~~~

This Fall, I spent most of my spare brain power being humbled by marathon training and the graduate school admissions cycle. But now that my MFA apps are done (we’ll hear back in March) and the Philadelphia Marathon has been run (the first 20 miles went well, at least) I’m looking forward to a winter of sleeping in, cheap beer, and reading for fun.

I’m not really an end-of-year list guy, though that’s not really a statement about evaluating art but a consequence of how disorganized I am.

But here’s a list of some books I loved this year that I didn’t get a chance to write about elsewhere:

Audition by Katie Kitamura
Seduction Theory by Emily Adrian
Information Age by Cora Lewis
Amateurs! by Johanna Walsh

And some shoutouts to some really smart essays I’ve read recently:

Gabriel Winslow Yost on Disco Elysium for the Baffler
n+1’s recent pair of pieces (by Brandon Harris and Mack Basham and Joshua Judd Porter) on baseball, a potential MLB salary cap, and the Dodgers
Leah Abrams in the Nation about working as a speechwriter for John Fetterman

As for music, just MUSIC by Playboi Carti.

~~~

Navigate to any piece of online journalism on modern generational divides and hit ctrl-f. Type in “experience.” You will find that the defining trait of millennials and their younger cohorts — zillenials, gen-z, gen-alpha, blah blah — is a desire to accumulate this amorphous “experience” rather than establish footholds in say, a career. Many of these pieces posit that people 40 and under would sooner work at a coffee shop than start families. It makes sense to fuck around accepting piecemeal gig work in order to pursue a passion or dream when there were never any jobs to begin with.

Why do I bring all of this up? Because the bulk of 2025, the second year into my 30s, has been defined by an escape from the infinite, humiliation-ritual matrix of the gig-economy. Like a non-insignificant portion of my peers, I spent the most of the last decade avoiding anything that would improve my candidacy for the renowned “email job.” What they don’t tell you about choosing this route is that if you are interested in stability at any point in the future, you will have to debase yourself in increasingly inventive ways later down the road.

I moved to New York in 2018 after getting fired by a law firm in Atlanta within a record-breaking amount of time (1.5 months), which was primarily spent in the office bathroom watching Fortnite vids until my thighs sustained nerve damage. Over a seven-year period, I worked everything from part-time receptionist at the FADER to box truck driver for a moving company during the height of the pandemic to janitor at a shuffle board club. I worked the graveyard shift (3 AM - 9:00 AM) at the UPS factory in Maspeth, Queens. During the holiday season, the speed and volume of the endless packages we had to stuff into trucks induces psychosis.

Relative salvation was offered to me in the form of a unionized position at a tech company that, yes, functions as a digital pain factory courageous enough to provide an answer to the following: what if we could monetize rising paranoia over “urban crime”? So at the beginning of 2025, I was listening to police radio overnight, living in an underworld where work hours take place from 7 PM to 5 AM.

In April, thankfully, a homie who started a social agency gave me a call and asked if I was still looking to “break into advertising.” He needed a full-time writer and comes from an editorial background himself. It is the only reason I no longer have to stay up overnight and listen to thousands of 911 calls, detailing the worst experiences of unnamed strangers’ lives to an audience seeking confirmation bias. In the months since, my primary concern has been maintaining said job and, as a result, my writing — when it doesn’t involve TikTok or IG Reel scripts or social show concepts — has largely fallen by the wayside.

Regardless, here is a mixture of my favorite music, movies, and #realizations in a year where the writing on the wall has never been more clear:

Songs that were aggressively in rotation

Pradabagshawty - “Tinder Date”
TDF & Ohsxnta - “Ghetto Symphony”
Khadija Al Hanafi - “Borders” (!OK! is easily a top 5 album for me)
ZayALLCAPS - “Friends You Can Kiss”
Playboi Carti - “Overly”
Rio Da Yung OG - “Ghetto Love Story” + “OFF-RAP”
Lil Xelly - “Rewind” (RIP you deserved so much better)
Future - “Maison Margiela” (2014 release but idc)
heartstopmiami - “LARRY DAVID”
Myaap - “Fairy”
Mark William Lewis - “Still Above”
Feng - “Left for USA”

Favorite movie that I saw for the first in 2025

Two-Lane Blacktop: What gripped me more than how the film looked, was Warren Oates’ character… the 21st century man. He’s someone who is a little past his prime, realizing the world he grew up in has been gone for a while and so he is desperately trying to adapt. Identity is the central currency of the future, Oates portends, and you can go as far as people are willing to buy into whatever it is you’re projecting. That’s why he is constantly searching for hitchhikers. Every new person he picks up represents an opportunity to reinvent himself. I think it coalesces nicely with our current era of short-form creator content. The second Obama era hammered home the idea that we could change our lives forever through one moment of virality. You just have to curate the right persona to get plucked out of obscurity.

Largest recession indicator

Recession indicator as a term is thrown out there too generously. Like anything else, peak saturation has scrambled its meaning. But the biggest recession indicator to me so far this year has been Spencer Jones’ presence on LinkedIn. For the uninitiated, Jones is an NBA player on the Denver Nuggets. He went undrafted in 2024 but signed a two-way contract this past summer, worth over half a million USD per year. And while these contracts aren’t long term and involve playing with the franchise’s development team in the G-League, he can expect to make upwards of $1 M over the next two years. Still, he posts consistently and aggressively on the social media platform meant to find jobs. Whether it’s hawking brand deals or positioning himself as someone who would be a great fit to represent your brand, it’s not that the content itself is that egregious, it’s that even 3-and-D archetypes in the league hardly have job security.

~~~

Crowell

I started out 2025 by quitting my job, going to a Spanish school in Guatemala, working at a hotel in Mexico, playing a lot of pickup basketball, and now I’m ending it with a new job helping wipe preschoolers who haven’t locked down EVERY step of the “taking a shit” process yet. The world’s worse, but life’s better now that I’ve turned 30.

Working at a bilingual preschool of mostly immigrants while the federal administration has made it their goal to kidnap as many of their parents as possible feels surreal. Two weeks ago, a four-year-old girl whispered uneasily to me in Spanish that her mom and older sister cried because “the police came to [her sister’s] school looking to take the daddies, but mommy says that we’re safe as long as we stay inside.” The rest of the week, this girl’s teenage cousins came to pick her up after school. In any given moment, the day-to-day surreality of breaking up fights when one kid decides that another kid’s aunts are actually her cousins and he’s pissed off that she’s lying, like a mini-Maury, causes me equal parts stress in the moment.

It’s not that teaching itself is something worthy of glazing. It’s not “rewarding.” I’ve come home and napped and/or cried more than I have in the past decade combined. But it’s not self-flagellation either: I had that covered by willingly watching every UCLA football game this season for reasons unknown. It just feels like when everything is going to shit I’ve never been one to just turn away. And hopefully we, as artists, teachers, and just people in the world, are able to turn towards the evil being acted all around us and do more than just feel bad. I’m not going to pretend like I know some grand unified theory of what needs to be done, but may 2026 be a year where we try to do stuff anyways.

Favorite films of 2025

Simon de la Montaña
One Battle After Another
Eddington
Yo Vi Tres Luces Negras
Weapons
Sinners
Un Cuento de Pescadores

Favorite films I watched for the first time in 2025 (not including films that came out this year)

Manila in the Claws of Light (1975)
Spirit of the Beehive (1973)
Volver (2006)
Candyman (1992)
The Parallax View (1974)
Hard Boiled (1992)
Canoa: A Shameful Memory (1976)
Amores Perros (2000)
Old Joy (2006)
La Llorona (2019)

Favorite things I read in 2025

The Fort Bragg Cartel by Seth Harp
Drug Cartels Do Not Exist by Oswaldo Zavala
Pedro Páramo by Juan Rulfo
Bitter Fruit: The untold story of the American coup in Guatemala by Stephen Schlesinger & Stephen Kinzer
Lolita by Vladimir Nabokov
Intermezzo by Sally Rooney
The Rider by Tim Krabbe
Confía en la Lucha by Krista Dover
The Shining by Stephen King
Heretics of Dune by Frank Herbert

My list of favorite songs this year is decidedly far too “uncool” since I spent so much of it trying to perfect Mexican karaoke songs that would impress the 50 year old couples dancing in the cantina

Los Tigres Del Norte - “Ni Parientes Somos”
Julieta Venegas - “Lento”
Natanael Cano - “O Me Voy O Te Vas”
Los Tucanes De Tijuana - “La Chona”
Belanova - “Rosa Pastel”
Luis Miguel - “Ahora Te Puedes Marchar”
La Union - “Lobo-hombre en Paris”
Selena - “Como La Flor”
Los Tigres Del Norte - “Contrabando Y Traicion”
Bad Bunny - “DtMF”

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The Pulpit: 1st Edition

Derange — Fri, 12 Sep 2025 18:11:34 GMT

Location: Atlanta, GA.

Temperature: 84° and humid.

Morale: Not too shabby.

Millan

Alright–we’re one month in. This newsletter is hitting the inboxes of just over 250 people, and I’d like to thank all of you for hopping aboard this early. (Triple thanks to those who have purchased subscriptions.) Things are progressing nicely here at Derange. We have a meager budget for writers (pitch us!), and in addition to our long-form features, we’ll be sending out this newsletter, The Pulpit, every month. It’s free, and will loosely follow the structure you see today: mini-essays, recommendations, and some space for our writers and paying subscribers to take the stand.

In case you’re new, here’s what we published this month:

’s head-rattling odyssey through Power Slap and its adjacent manosphere, featuring some touching portraits of the league’s fiercest slappers. (Paywall removed for a limited time.)

’s sharp analysis of Shane Gillis and a review of his show in Albany, NY, which sparked some controversy on r/ShaneGillis.

“The Russian Painter,” by yours truly, which looked at a 1 of 1 artist who was swept up by global rumblings in a Forrest Gump-esque sequence of events (albeit without as much humor).

on That One Time he got locked up for using white-out marker (OK, “doing graffiti”) in NYC. He dives into the puzzling way the NYPD persecutes graffiti writers, and takes us through his surreal 24 hours in Queens Central Booking.

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Will

Fakemink, Live in NYC

As Fakemink, the London rapper recently christened by Frank Ocean, was wrapping up his show at the Bowery Ballroom, a seven-foot selfie stick materialized. Wielded by a quad of gangly-looking youths sporting dark denim and RL Big Pony Polos, the act was less aggressive than the blinking red light of a GoPro in the middle of recording would suggest.

For one, the group was standing on the edge of the venue’s second floor, stretching their upper torsos and string bean arms over the railing. It’s as if they were trying to catch errant aura shrapnel cast from the 20-year-old rapper’s person. In this way the selfie stick was far removed from anyone’s sight line, a godly neutral observer like the Skycam used in NFL broadcasts.

The line between performative concert-attendee and exuberant teenager in the age of crowd-sourced-surveillance is thin. Sure, you don’t do yourself any favors when you fake-play chess at a rap show, but I found myself glancing up at the group, waiting for a misstep before forcing myself to course correct: “I’m unc, and these kids are having fun.”

(Here’s Fakemink’s No Bells interview for other uncs out there.)

Maybe it was because they looked like they stepped out of the “Chief Keef really had white boys dressing like this 😂 he the 🐐,” meme. Or maybe it was the nature of the show:

Underground darling receives string of A-list co-signs and rides the ensuing hype train into an NYC performance with murmurs of white AAVE-speaking influencers in attendance and a couple prominent faces of the 2010s streetwear clout-vortex (Luka Sabbat and Asspizza) on stage, all watching the young artist in the same way John Calipari eyes prospects at summer EYBL tournaments.

Here’s a few things that stood out:

There were at least 17 articles of clothing bearing the Union Jack, vaguely gesturing to the half-Indian and half-Algerian’s Essex roots but more broadly to the percolating UK rap moment™ that has been taking place for a while now.
The stage blended elements of Neon Geneis Evangelion (thin monoliths beaming different-colored light adjourning the edges) and Eyes Wide Shut (scarlet-red carpet at center).
Fakemink took his shirt on and off four times despite no visible moisture anywhere on his body.
The lethargic nature of his stage presence didn't detract from the performance. Fakemink had real command of the crowd.

Sammy

Threshold by Rob Doyle and Eternal Damnation

Last week, I got really into Threshold by Rob Doyle, a meandering book that was recommended to me by someone who told me it was about “being depressed and doing a lot of drugs.” When I started reading it on my train rides, the narrator was blandly rambling about mushrooms, and I was listening to a lot of Julianna Hatfield, for some reason.

These two things felt diametrically opposed: distant, plotless narrative in my hands; sharp, bleeding-heart music in my ears. “Performative reading” discourse was all over my Twitter timeline, which made me extremely conscious of how I looked on the subway, headphones on, holding this big book of acid testimonials, thinking about the people around me, and in doing so, low-key performing. Little did I know, then, that I had committed my final sin. The Julianna Hatfield music turned sour, like a doppler-effected ice cream truck, and I was thrust before a panel of my peers, all dressed in blinding white, glaring at me through META glasses. My actions were dishonorable, they said, pouting. They demanded that I perform for them; I could not find my book, as I had left it on Earth. Too bad. They jeered, spat at my feet, unleashed upon me a series of hurtful, bitingly-witty subtweets. I sobbed and was promptly cast into Hell. It looks a lot like Queens Central Booking.

Ock

United in Flames w/ jamesjamesjames

Malibu, the dreamy French ambient artist, has been going crazy on her NTS residency shows, but this week’s installation in collaboration with jamesjamesjames, the producer with the Avicii back tattoo (real? who’s to say…it feels real to me, which is all that matters) is my new favorite.

Ty Dolla $ign against “Stereo Love,” a crazy trance send-up of the poppy Ethel Cain song from the Obama list…my favorite music is the stuff that shouldn’t work, that your brain forecloses itself against the possibility of, and yet still goes. Malibu is sometimes swept under the rug as a nostalgia merchant, but what she’s doing reminds me of my favorite parts of the still-outstanding Jane Remover NTS show (RIP) or the best of vaporwave (“best of” doing a lot of heavy lifting), wherein poppy detritus is reconstituted into a joyous bit of affirmation. Don’t think of it as ironic or sincere, but as total.

Not Reacting to Graphs You See on the Internet

You don’t know what they mean, and more often than not they’re none of your business. Resist the temptation to predict everything…

Negative Literary Criticism

Everyone was abuzz about the big New Yorker piece about the purported death of negativity in music criticism, which I actually thought was fine…as comprehensive as a two-pager at the end of a bi-weekly could reasonably be, considered, perceptive. The writing world doesn’t have stans or, like, VIP sections to do ketamine in at music festivals, but the scene isn’t much brighter.

Increasingly, the venn diagram of who criticism is for, by, and about is coming to resemble a full circle. Why pan a book if you might run into its author at a bar? When nobody really reads anymore, is it worth putting additional negativity into an endangered space? Isn’t that what we have Andrea Long Chu’s quarterly skewer jobs for? Anyway, The Baffler just ran two pieces of acerbic and ruthless criticism from two of my favorite writers working, Daniel Kolitz and Adrian Nathan West. Each piece is a compelling, unintentional answer to the question Kolitz poses at his conclusion: this shit is why we bother.

Srikar

Corridos Ketamina

This is a duo with a background in the LA rave scene that now make their own southwestern strain of cloud rock. They trade Dean Blunt’s London fog that obscures and reveals black, white, British, and American heritage for their native desert dust. They time-stretch acoustic guitars until digital cracks appear and throw on trap, trip-hop, or intoxicating drum breaks. Sirens and smoke for the clown crashout gueyes give rise to a dark smog. Like many of their forefathers in regional Mexican music, they are most deeply devoted to the love in their life, with whom they share el sexo sin proteccion and botitas de miu miu.

Seeing Oasis

I didn’t expect for my eyes to well up at the sight of 50-year-old Manchester-born brothers holding hands in the air as the beat from “Fuckin in the Bushes” plays. The brotherly love that eluded them for so long mixed with the brotherly love that got me there in the first place did something to me. My friends pooled together to get me a ticket for Saturday’s show in Pasadena.

The blues shuffle of “Cigarettes and Alcohol” is the soundtrack to the crowds’ European Poznan. Sir Paul himself records “Little by Little” from the box seats. Crying fathers hug their crying daughters.

The Gallagher brothers have finally gotten to the ripe age where they can set aside their egos to accept that they need each other (and money, post-divorce). Noel’s ability to weave melodies and progressions that sew themselves into your mind mixed with Liam’s sneer and presence causes the nearly nonsensical lyrics about the desire to escape time and one’s circumstances to take on a genuinely transcendental feeling.

Millan

snuggle

A band out of the growing scene in Copenhagen that just released their second album, Goodbyehouse. It's enchanting, high-brow indie composed by Andrea Thuesen and Vilhelm Strange. Andrea’s vocals put you in quicksand, but the fat bass lines, spastic drum machines, and sprite strings provide just enough spunk to keep you from sinking. Here’s my favorite from the record:

Atlanta Will Be Just Fine

A cleanse from the city’s feuding rap titans.

Derange Subscribers:

Will [Boston]: Bud Light glass bottles. The most crisp taste + optimal consumption vehicle in the entire light beer market. Grab 2 at a time and hold them in the same hand while gesturing over a college football game. A simple pleasure.

Jon [Los Angeles]: David Halberstam - The Best and the Brightest. The classics are sometimes classics for a reason. Dense, long, but almost never dull. Insane detail. A reminder that history repeat itself and powerful men are really silly gooses not so deep down.

Nick [Los Angeles]: Richard Linklater's SubUrbia. This is the older, darker, and more jaded cousin of Dazed & Confused, about what happens after graduation and all the last day of school shenanigans. Though not as iconic as its predecessor, its depiction of lost and aimless youth in the citadels of the American Dream serves as a searing indictment of the great emptiness that all those decades of post-war empire wrought.

Chris [Chicago]: Give "Mapmaker" by Oh Geeez, Not Again a listen! This indie/folk-y/pop-rock album from last year is catchy, polished, sincere, and a great soundtrack for an outdoor adventure on a crisp autumn day.

Alex [NYC]: How The West Stole Democracy From The Arabs by Elizabeth Thompson. The rare nonfiction page-turner that tells the nearly erased history of Greater Syria's fight for a multifaith democracy (including Lebanon and Palestine, which were still part of Syria before European partition) after World War 1, and the 100s of French and British betrayals that destroyed it. You can draw a century-long straight line from the events in the book to better understand the ongoing genocide of Palestinians, the broader Middle East Crisis™️ and the hollow mirage known as 'international law.'

Thanks for reading! We’ll be back with another next month.