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 lifeblog, shady life choices + introspection
XANDER
 Posted: Apr 1 2017, 01:11 AM
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my regional manager's birthday was yesterday! i got him a birthday card. despite everything, he makes me really fucking sad, like when he's like, "thank you! i didn't get much this year, but my dad gave me $100." WHERE ARE YOUR FRIENDS????

so here's something i wrote about him - 1/2. first, this thing. next, the birthday card i almost gave him, but didn't (thanks debbie!)

*
      This story is a lie.

      All stories are lies, but this one especially. The poetry of Saphho was really just a noun here, a verb there. Really, it was just the imagination of an interpreter running wild. The re-creation was never a true translation, and neither is this.

      This is a lie from scraps of truth. This is a tableau arranged around broken, stolen artifacts. This is a story made of other stories, stories that may or may not be true.

      This is a lie trying to sneak up behind the truth, and catch it by surprise.

      *

      First, you are young. First, you are different.

      Difference starts only skin deep - but we know skin is important here. It starts with a name that is too long and hard to pronounce. It starts with the essence of you being whittled away in consonants and vowels, until you are three letters, one syllable, and an easy rhyme. That's how you start.

      That's all we can know for sure - there's little to go on here. You never talked about this part. You once said, "I don't respect marriage much anyways," and I knew, just a little, of what might swim beneath the shroud of an unspoken youth.

      We can guess it didn't involve a lot of order, because you love order so much now. You must have had it once, perhaps in a childhood warm with grace and material comfort. These you lost; you would have them again. You swore. You are a swearer.

      There's little to tell, because we can only reverse-engineer your childhood from the man you turned out to be. You will forgive me my impertinence and my inaccuracies.

      *

      You are a young man. Here we acquire a nice pair of spectacles. You come into focus.

      You like to play cards - poker, specifically. Every month, you go to the casino and gamble, earning just enough to make your car payment, before leaving. This is the official story - this is the part where you learn to make mirages, where you cultivate that coveted 'poker face'. It is a good story. It goes down smooth.

      But I don't know how I didn't think about it sooner. Somehow I forgot that when I was that age - eighteen to twenty-something - I didn't have a car payment. My old Buick was by no means impressive, but it had no payment, and my pocket change came from working part-time at the mall. It sounds clever, that you could make as much in a few hours as I did in a few days, but casinos are cold, glittering, glowing places. They are houses of inequity, magnets for the bitter, the deluded, fools, and thrill seekers. Which were you, at eighteen, nineteen, twenty? Who let you go? Did you look old when you were still young? Did you feel old too?

      At twenty-four, you end up where I did, in used car sales. I know you studied sports journalism, but said the internships weren't enough and the pay wasn't good. Good enough how? Good enough to pay for what? I know you ran up balances on credit cards - where did that money go? Are you bailing someone else out of a hole, or are you digging your own, trying to find happiness there?

      You said you were a C student, but you are not a C mind.

      At twenty-six, you move across the country to the cold North, pushed there by a chain of promotions. The company promises you money and greatness. It promises you order. So you go.

      You decide you are not a person who looks back.

      *

      You are an older man and you know what you are doing. Then you meet me.

      What did you see? What did you feel? I was like you, when you were young - only different. I had not been humbled as you had. On the contrary, I was wrapped in a warm cloak of enchantment, watched over by the one who sent me out into the world - not like you, sent into the cold, abandoned. I demanded compassion, compromise, money. How was it fair that I live a charmed life, when you had suffered so? And who was I to ask for even more - for answers, explanations, promises, your attention? This is outrage upon outrage.

      Where other knelt to kiss your ring, I cross my arms and laughed. You burned yourself on the altar of your career to forge that ring; behind closed doors, you swore, you bared your teeth, you wept. You held yourself apart, sweating in the furnace of your becoming, concealing yourself in jocularity, betting odds, and sports commentary. You are monstrous and feared. Who am I to deny you respect? Who am I to demand yours?

      You are angry. Your heart knows new pain. The hard-won order of your days frays at the edges. You cannot control me because you cannot predict me, and you cannot predict me because you cannot accept that I exist, because you have trained yourself to count cards and define people by sets, suits, pairs, runs. To what suit does the Joker belong? You could not allow such a creature anything but the narrowest of footholds in your universe.

      But amidst the anger, the pain, the nettles of disrespect, you felt something else, didn't you? You were promised order, and you got it - you minted it from the raw materials, transforming lumping ores into crisp, matching coins. No one told you the cost of this order, that it would throttle something inside you. The world fades to silver, then loses its shine. Suddenly, there is something new in the world. That something is chaotic, but you are all the more determined to bottle lightning.

      *

      You have a girlfriend. You have been dating her for eight years. She is blind. She has moved across three states with you, and you say that you will never marry her. 'If it's not broken,' you say, 'Why fix it? Why change a good thing?'

      You say you reject commitment. You say you won't go with your girlfriend to see her family on Christmas Eve, that you would rather stay home and watch TV. We advertise our defects to deny they are defects, to take the fight to our accusers before they can land the first blow. We pretend to accept ourselves by declaring our faults, when it is our vulnerabilities we hide and do not accept.

      You love her, but you are too good at mirages. You wander in and out of them all day, and sometimes, at the end of those days, you cannot totally bring yourself out.

      *

      You fail to bring me to heel. It devastates you.

      You cannot decide on what is the worst thing about the situation, or me. Half the night you are kept up by how you did not see it coming, by how quickly and finally and awfully it happened; the other half of the night you lie awake haunted by the failure to compel me properly, to either force me to settle for less or urge me to quit, to recuse myself from your game. Before I leave, you sit me down and swear that I will never be rid of you. The moment doesn't feel real, even as the words leave your mouth.

      It has been a long time since you lost, if you have ever lost this way at all. It was necessary for you to believe that, past a certain point, you would become incapable of losing - at least incapable of losing to an amateur. The world explodes into color, oranges, reds, violets. You are poisoned. You are obsessed.

      You are patient; you can wait. You stand back and watch me devour myself, consumed by my potential and crippled without guidance. For my defiance, you punish me over, and over, and over. It feels good to punish me.

      At some point, it does not feel as good as it did in the beginning, but you cannot stop. You are compelled to push me to the breaking point, until finally, I crack, sobbing after an hour trapped in an office with you and my general manager. I am unable to comprehend my defects, but I know that I hate you. You know that I hate you, and this does not feel good either.

      When at last you win - when I am torn from my pedestal - you wait to feel uplifted. You wait to feel triumphant. Instead, you feel as if you have killed something magical, something beautiful. I pass by your office and ignore you, and you do not understand how this feeling - this feeling - is worse than before, worse than when I told you 'no' and argued and wanted more than you were willing to give. The next time I pass by, you call me in, to tell me that I am not allowed to ignore you. You tell me that you believe in me, but you are lying, because you don't know what you believe anymore.

      *

      A few weeks later, it is your birthday. I bring you a present. It is a picture of us from the past November, from the company charity event. The frame is cheap. The photo is amateur. I am the ghost of someone you killed, giving you a milk carton with my face on it. You can't possibly refuse.

      It is the worst gift you have ever been given, and you don't know why. Since you have known me, the list of things you don't know has gotten longer. What you do know is that the idea of looking at me makes you sick to your stomach. What you know is that you can never apologize, that you can never say sorry, because to do so would destroy the illusion of your infallibility, your unquestionability.

      You can never go back, so there is no use in looking back.

      *

      For many months, you avoid me. At one point, you talk to every other sales employee in the office, except for me. When asked, you laugh and say that we have a great relationship, that we have talked plenty of times. In reality, you do not want to be alone in a room with me ever again. You are overwhelmingly successful in this venture.

      For many months, you march on, knowing that I hate you. You hate knowing that I hate you, and that you care that I hate you. Slowly, you accept this as a burden you must bear. This hatred is penance for your sins. You are not sure which sins you have committed, but your guilt is proof they exist.

      Then, one day, I do not hate you.

      On this day, I talk to you. On this day, I tell you about an article that I read that I think you will like. I tell you a joke, and you laugh. You come away pleased, confused, hopeful, wary. The next time you come back, I tell you another joke, and your hopes brighten.

      There is no obvious explanation for the evaporation of this hatred, though you suspect my New Age hobbies have something to do with it. I ask you for no favors, no promotions. I am still the same strange, mystical, mischievous creature that I was when you first met me, still unmanageable and not manager material. Again, I act without your permission, and decide to forgive you.

      It is good not to be hated, but you are still unhappy. All this time you have been in love with me, and you've never done anything for me at all.

      *

      That's the truth-lie we are approaching sideways: you are in love with me. You do not know exactly when it started, if you loved me at first sight or you loved me when you told me about your life or you loved me the first time I left, but somewhere along the lines, you did. You loved me, and love drove you to wrath.

      You are confident I do not know this about you. You are confident that no one knows this about you, because no one here has ever seen you in love with anyone. You would die before telling anyone how you feel, including admitting it to yourself. You only look at your feelings sideways, never quite acknowledging them. Still, you wish there was something you could do to express that you love me, without anyone being able to understand or interpret the gesture.

      The opportunity comes when I fuck up, royally. I piss off the heads of two corporate departments. I inconvenience all the managers of my own store. The involved customer threatens legal action, and actually seems capable of following through with it. The story trickles up to your bosses, people who have been in the company ten, fifteen, twenty years. These are circumstances that demand consequences; people have suffered more, for less.

      You pray for the matter to be left to your discretion; your prayers are answered, and it is. You are thus granted the glory of - doing nothing, of warning me sternly, of sweeping trouble under the rug. You offer your favorite platitude, 'I believe in you.'

      You do not believe in me. You are in love with me. There is a difference.

      *

      You are still here. I am still here. I still occasionally err on the side of great foolishness, the foolishness born from noble intentions and grand gestures offered to the wrong audiences at the wrong time; again, you have been there to wave away retribution. I apologize for causing problems, and you say, 'You are not a problem.' I say I am sorry, and you say, 'My dear friend.'

      You still consider me somewhat incomprehensible and unmanageable, but increasingly, you do not care. You do not care because your world is again filled with so much gray, so much metal, so much cold - and you feel entitled to your small pleasures. You can never square your debt with me, no - you can never restore that precise magic, that particular innocence. What you can do is shield me, to the best of your ability, from the rules and reality you once said I could not defy.

      It does not matter if you do not understand me. It does not matter if you do not see me often. What matters is that, when you do, you know, for a moment, that there is someone looking through the mirages, that there is color and there is chaos and there is more to life than order, and that you do not need to whittle your soul away. You do not need to be easily pronounced.

      You keep lying to me anyways, but I forgive you. We all have stories we need to tell.

--------------------
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XANDER
 Posted: Apr 1 2017, 12:06 PM
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tiefling bard
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Posts: 1114
Joined: 21-February 11

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morning Q&A interlude
    Q: wait, is everyone secretly in love with you?
    A: not everyone, but it's more likely than you think!

    Q: why?
    A: because i am mysterious and earnest on top of being physically attractive.

    Q: and that means what?
    A: it means i am a weird motherfucker and people don't totally get what's going on in my head, which allows them to invent what i'm thinking and be drawn to it.

    Q: and?
    A: i'm like a paper doll that you can mentally photoshop into your escapists fantasies about ditching your current life. what your current life is is irrelevant.

    Q: does this actually happen?
    A: i got not one but two love confessions in february. 'love' is also a better explanation than 'hypnosis' for why i get away with behaving how i do at my job.

    Q: you sound super paranoid.
    A: because i am.

    Q: probably also a narcissist.
    A: don't be a hater now.
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XANDER
 Posted: Apr 12 2017, 08:45 PM
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tiefling bard
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i had a real entry for you guys but then 1. my computer updated while i was out and restarted itself, there goes that entry and 2. i talked to my dad, who said a few hilarious and memorable things.
QUOTE


  • "i try to read this book but i can only read a little at a time because i think about how long i lived without understanding why i couldn't get my shit together and nobody helped me and IT'S SO UNFAIR."


  • "i'm so fucked up."


  • "you got the real [fucked-up] deal on a dad."


  • "your hair looks terrible and when it all falls out you can just shave it and you will look cuter than it is right now."


MY DAD, EVERYONE

i realize i should be.... more disturbed by these things? i recited them to my girlfriend and she stared at me like IT WAS THE CRAZIEST SHIT SHE HAD EVER HEARD, and i have to remind myself that other people aren't embroiled in endless battles/journeys with their parents. their parents are just weird hierarchical figures who provide validation and various forms of support! strange! so strange!

meanwhile, in therapy

QUOTE
me: i've been depressed forever, haven't i
debbie: i am so impressed you figured it out

me: i feel so far behind from where i should be
debbie: you're doing a lot better than most 20-somethings i know
me: that's nice but am i a famous instagram travel blogger???



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XANDER
 Posted: Apr 19 2017, 01:28 PM
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tiefling bard
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when an old college friend posted a picture of herself at malibu beach on a friday afternoon, i immediately invited her out to coffee on sunday. the unusual nature of this impulse is best understood in light of how distant i have been from every person i encountered in my four years at university: how i floated in and out of their lives like a colorful paper lantern, memorable, fragile, strange, gone. in spite of this, i can still trace my history as confidante and confessor into this age. i remembered the tragedies of this friend, her sadness, her horror. i wondered about who she saw in those moments, what she saw that made me worthy of listening. i now wanted to look in the mirror of her eyes, to see how my present self measured up to the stranger of the past.

there was something else too, something that only barely allowed itself to approach the forefront of my mind, creeping out from a dark corner. maybe she knows about her, this something said. perhaps you can ask.

reader, perhaps you remember (i'll find the url later, but it's the friend whose boyfriend i hit on and ruined our friend group in college), a particular regret over a particular betrayal. what i did not tell you was that, on my vacation to portland, my conscience returned to this old sin, over and over and over. what's the statute of limitations on six-year-old sins? what is the 'right' thing to do? are we only attacking people all over again, to bring up an ugly past and our part in it? or are apologies better late than never? i cannot tell you. but what i can tell you is that i went through facebook, found her account, and delivered my apology. i watched the 'read' receipt appear. i received no response, but i wasn't expecting one.

so out i went on sunday to the la brea tar pits, a place where things died thousands of years ago, and we gawk at their remains now. i only had a few hours to spare with my old friend, but it was time enough to reminisce about the past, assess an animatronic mammoth, and discuss old friends. of course it would come to pass that the betrayed friend came up. of course i nodded along, wondering if my traitorous past was common knowledge - wondering, suddenly, if my visiting friend knew what i was.

'N invited me to her Halloween party,' Friend told me, 'and i showed up late, and it turned out to be a surprise wedding for N and R, and all the guests were dressed as characters from Twin Peaks. N's wedding dress was made entirely of syran wrap. she's getting her MFA from some college in Denver. the wedding cake was vegan donuts.' and i could see it all so clearly in my mind's eye, N's party, the syran wrap dress, the donuts. suddenly it was october, and i was in denver, a ghost perched on the arm of a couch picked up from goodwill, cradling a paper cup as not to spill my drink on the shitty, burn-marked carpet.

i have guiltily kept up with N over the years, as much as one can keep up with a facebook profile - a year or two spent living in russia, singing in a band; a handful of months spent working on a blueberry farm; more months in the old college town, months spent making organic soaps, before purchasing a beat-up van to drive across the country; landing in denver, and getting married. the unspoken truths, the truths i know that are not facbook friendly, color these brighter moments - chronic illness, student loan debt, poverty. N always evoked an image of freedom to me, of someone living as hard as she could, as vividly as she could. her suffering i only poorly understood.


'good for her,' i said to our mutual friend, 'good for her.'

it was not just N's suffering that escape my grasp - it was the suffering of almost everyone i encountered, though many people were brave enough to show it to me. i am glad that i was, at the very least, accepting and unquestioning. i did not sit in judgment. but i did not sit in judgment because i was a greater being, because i was a true master of compassion. i was accepting because i saw myself as too low a creature to wonder, to question, or to assume that anyone lived and felt as i did. my self-loathing kept me from appreciating their gifts. i hated myself too much to realize that i was loved.

as i walked back to the parking lot, after parting ways with my friend, i mentally reviewed my performance: 3.5. out of 5 stars - could have talked less about myself, could have asked better life questions, decent job listening. i wonder if she'll go back to Denver, if she'll see N, if she'll say, 'you know who i saw in California?', and i wonder if this handful of hours will reverberate outward, if they will shift the balance.

or perhaps it is all balanced already. perhaps it always was. i cannot go back in time and accept the love i was given. i can only open my arms, and keep moving forward.

*

reader, i am depressed! as said, it is a weird and sad thing to admit. when i close my eyes, i see myself in different parts, in different incarnations: i see a shadowy, fox-like monster who stands taller than the trees, i see a woman with white hair who interrogates my feelings, i see a dark-haired child in chains followed by a red-eyed golem. it is the last one that i find myself reckoning with recently, this poor soul who has carried the unspoken weight of my trauma and sadness. is it really a surprise that i'm depressed? is it such a shock that everything i went through would shape how i think, how i see the world, how i see myself? why did it take so long to connect the dots of self-loathing, of fear, of doubt?

there's an answer, of course! let's answer it with PICTURES.

you see, reader, i am a big weirdo! i mean, biologically speaking, i am a weirdo. without getting into exactly how or why, let's tepidly accept the idea that i am disposed against fear, anxiety, and overall poor mood. when i say these things, i'm not saying that i'm not cognitively afraid, or cognitively anxious - what i'm saying is, i am biologically harder to work up or keep down. the fact that my brain does not often turn on the FIRE ALARMS helps to explain how i can walk through clouds of smoke, sit down in a burning building, and go, 'hmmmm! is something wrong here?' when the alarms do go off, they do not go off as loud as other people's, which means i can go take my Thought Bat and smash them until they go off. 'NOTHING IS WRONG,' i scream, as my pant leg catches on fire. 'I SAID NOTHING IS WRONG.'

the point is, it looks like this.

user posted image

imagine these are the three big aspects of depression and shit right here: cognitive/thoughts, social/behavior, and physical. imagine that these three things work together and influence each other.

except if you're me, and you're weird!

user posted image

so it goes like this:

user posted image

you have a sad thought! you think that sad thought, and if you think enough of these, your brain doesn't release all those useful mood-influencing hormones, like serotonin! your thoughts are part of convincing your body to go into full slug mode.

and then there's me!

user posted image

while bombarded with sad, shitty thoughts, my brain just keeps telling my body to pump out the 'everything is fine' chemicals (for the most part. i should let you know that i drink 2 kale smoothies a day, exercise for an hour three times a week, and sleep aggressively 8-9 hours a day, and i recommend you do all that shit if you want to not feel like a slug.) so while i'm mentally bleh, i can still get out of bed, eat my breakfast, and march on.

this also works for a lot of social stuff!

user posted image

if i do not go outside and talk to people, i will wall off. however! if i can make myself go outside (physical task) and i am around people, HUZZAH, you would never guess that i feel misunderstood and isolated and worthless! i am so charming!

user posted image

in spite of my shitty, shitty thoughts and social patterns, i do this.

user posted image

and then i turn around and look at everyone like

user posted image

WANT to do things???? i do not understand. MOVE YOUR LIMBS. lift them. roll yourself towards the grocery store. buy green things. shove them into your mouth. my cognition might be all fucked up, but i am a fucking Nike commercial. JUST DO IT, i scream at everyone, everything, all the time.

but, you see, while i am trying to Nike (Just Do It), i am the equivalent of a marathon runner with really heavy ankle weights. i am trying so hard to run fast, run far, but i can't run as far as other people! i do not understand, i am trying so hard! i am working so hard! why can't i run like they can? as i refused to acknowledge that i was depressed, i came to the obvious conclusions of a depressed person: that i am lazy, that i am shitty, that i am a bad person. that's why i never went to law school! that's why i'm not a better site admin! that's why i struggle to commit to writing! it is because i am bad and i am not trying hard enough.

...or i'm running with ankle weights! and realizing that is like, MOTHERFUCKER YOU ARE JOKING ME. ankle weights is a nice term! think more like shackles with balls and chains. this shit is heavy and also so very attached to me.

so that's the job now, reader! now i will sit around and fill out depression worksheets and spend the next - oh my god, fuck me - 6 months to 1 year to 2 years reconditioning my entire goddamn thought process. FUKKEN. SHIT.

you, raising your hand in the back - what is it? maybe i should stop trying to run marathons? NO, FUCK YOU. HAVE YOU MET ME???? god damn, look at everything i've accomplished WITH THESE FUCKERS ON. i am clearly going to be usain bolt when i get them off. WATCH OUT!!!

*

lastly, things with my girlfriend are okay. we've been seeing each other for three months now! when i am with her, i almost feel normal.

i worry that she is 1) a little too normal/untraumatized and 2) in a different class strata. when i tell her really sad/fucked up things, i can read in her face that she has no idea what i'm talking about. this shit is purely theoretical to her. i am a case study from a psych textbook. additionally, she has no practical concerns about money - in this case, eating out all the time and student loans. like, okay, you went to a private school in malibu at 40k a year, of course you believe in getting a master's degree and making 120k! of course you do! and i do not know you well enough to take a hammer to your dreams!

she writes me really sweet notes, and i do think she really likes me, but part of me suspects that i get away with being so obviously crazy because i am very good-looking. hot bitches - they're crazy, it's just how it is!

this has been AN UPDATE, reader. do you feel UP TO DATE?

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XANDER
 Posted: Apr 21 2017, 12:35 PM
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tiefling bard
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this is more like a supplemental update to the last post but here it is: a list of good things about my girlfriend
  1. sends me academic articles from her grad school classes
  2. watches my favorite animes with me [madoka, now evangelion]
  3. writes me sweet notes
  4. respects my physical boundaries [i came out with the 'I'M WAITING TO HAVE SEX' pretty quick]
  5. has gone to zumba with me TWICE [i love ridiculous dancing]
  6. participates in 'haiku tuesday'
yet i am uneasy, reader! and the core of my unease lies with puttering around for... what do i call it? darkness? sadness? tragedy? i am a human metal detector of Fucked Up Shit, combing the beaches of people's personalities until i find the lost engagement ring. AHA! THIS IS IT. YOUR FUCKED UP-NESS. i am disconcertingly good at this, in part because i am also good at picking out people who are fucked up. i smell your sadness on you and i come running.

my girlfriend is not sad! in fact, she may even have had NOTHING extremely bad happen to her! she has worried about being disowned for being bi, but that has never actually happened. she has made a few oblique references to Bad Relationships, but the details are sparse. i keep waiting for them, and i try to pick at them, but nothing. meanwhile, when i have revealed something more depressing about my life, i kinda get that 'huh' look.

i don't know what to do with that 'huh' look! for eight years i was enmeshed with someone who was at least as fucked up as me. the loneliness, the pain, the fear, the yearning, the hurt that i articulated - i was talking to someone who had, like me, suffered greatly, and thus understood. i worry that my girlfriend can't really understand me, because she hasn't suffered greatly.

is that my problem? have i made the mistake of identifying with my suffering, with defining myself by it? am i so overly invested in the awful shit that happened to me that i don't know how to live with someone who isn't damaged? can you hold it against someone, that they're not depressed like you? i don't think that's fair, and it doesn't sound productive, but i still don't quite know what to do.

lastly, there is a dark fear lurking in me. it sounds like this: "you might not be damaged yet, but you will be after me." just follow me down the rabbit hole into my vivid emotional wonderland! watch all the TV shows, go on all the adventures, i'll meet all your friends and go to weddings with you and one day you'll fall in love with me and that, my friend, will be your becoming.

don't mind me, just worrying about shit that hasn't even happened yet!

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