Sexual Chemistry VS Romantic Infatuation ~ A Jason Silva Saturday

Sexual Chemistry — “It’s hot. It’s groovy, it’s great! Everyone should have it!

Romantic Infatuation — “Seeing your reflection in your lover’s eye MAKES YOU TEAR UP!”

“True romantic infatuation is pregnant with melancholy.”

Oh, Jason, I don’t know…you may have a point.

I wrote about Sexual chemistry once:

You guys let me know how you feel about chemistry and infatuation. It’ll just be between you and me…

Carry on,



Reprise (kind of) Valentine’s Day, Spinster Auntie Day, A Girls Gotta do What Gets Her Through February 14th


Let’s get real here. Valentines Day sucks. It just does.
Oh sure, when you’re in the beginning of a relationship it can be all hearts and flowers, but in my opinion, it is the pink-clad, chocolate covered ugly step-sister of New Year’s Eve. Neither rarely live up to our expectations.

That being said, for their own emotional survival, some single women take things into their own hands.

Amy Pohler for instance. She invented Galentine’s Day.

Galentine’s Day is a popular fictional holiday for women to celebrate with their girlfriends.  Created by Amy Poehler’s character, Leslie Knope on the NBC sitcom Parks and Recreation, the holiday takes place every year on Feb. 13 in celebration of female friendship.

I love that.

Once upon a time, I created a day too.

Except mine makes me shudder with shame. You be the judge. 

Here ya go…

I am not proud of what I’m about to reveal—but it’s the truth.

Once upon a time, I had the world by the balls. Or the tits. Both are equally painful if you think about it.

Anyhow, I had a job I loved, lots of friends and foreign travel. I ate and drank well. I had enough sex (although, do you really ever have enough sex? — Asking for a friend). Only one thing stuck in my craw and I was an A-number-one brat about it.

Thinking back on this chapter of my life, I can’t believe what a spoiled jerk I was. A serious boil on the ass of humanity.

Nevertheless, I still think the cause was a good one—I just went about it all wrong.

I was nearing my forties, terminally single, and childless by choice.

One night, tipsy on wine and inadequacy after attending yet another friend’s baby shower directly on the heels of Mother’s Day, I decided that there needed to be a National holiday to celebrate women like…well, me…who am I kidding? Just me.

I picked a day in September, because of where it sits on the calendar (I wasn’t a total asshole). I placed it directly after summer and just prior to the run-up to the holidays. I think it was September 20th.

After careful consideration, filled with equal parts entitlement and hubris, I gathered together my family and friends to decree that September 20th would heretofore be known as Spinster Auntie Day!

I wanted cake. Cupcakes to be exact. I wanted decorations. And gifts. I think I even registered somewhere. God help me.

Why my sister didn’t, at the very least, gag and tie me up until I decided to behave myself is beyond me. Anyway

My feeling was this: I celebrated everyone — all the time.
Weddings and their showers, babies and their showers and birthdays. So many baby birthdays… I lost count. In your thirties, celebrating matrimony and childbirth essentially takes up most of your Saturdays and many of your Sundays. Society at large celebrates mommies and motherhood. And families. As fun as that can be—and it was fun—after a decade I felt like an outsider.

It was a club of which I was not a member. Cue the violins.

There was no day for me and the many women like me. (Insert hands on hips, whining and foot stomps here.)

The unmarried, childless women that all the other women turned to in times of joy and crisis.
The Auntie. In my case, The Spinster Auntie.

The diaper changing, stroller pushing, tote lugging, binkie washing, baby wranglers.

The ones who take worried midnight phone calls, do emergency 6 am pharmacy runs, and read Goodnight Moon over and over tens of thousands of times. We sit covered in drool or some unidentified sticky substance to watch Frozen or Toy Story or Cars until we want to gouge our eyes out while the mommies grab a quick shower, run an errand, or God willing, catch a nap.

We were regularly available because we were a part of that village, you know, the one that it takes to raise a kid.
And besides that, we had no real life.

At the time I knew the parents were heroic. No question about it. But I couldn’t help feeling like at times we were the unsung heroes. No one meant to overlook us. They were sleep deprived and just so fucking busy being full-time parents.

Overlooking is never intentional.

Now before you go and totally hate me (If you don’t already), don’t get me wrong. I loved my auntie duties. My time spent with my niece and nephew and the children of all of my friends are irreplaceable. Every boo-boo kiss, hand-hold, “I wuv you”, and baby-belly-laugh was pure joy to me and I wouldn’t have missed it. I felt lucky to be a member of the inside circle.

I just wanted a day. And cake. Don’t forget about the cake.

I don’t remember if we ever celebrated Spinster Auntie Day more than once. Probably not. I’m certain I went on with my life, too ashamed to bring it up again. I think if asked my sister, with a shudder, could remember.

Come to find out I was not alone in my unadulterated shamelessness. In 2009, someone actually got a National Aunt and Uncle Day added to the calendar (I like my title better), but I never heard about it because by that time I was married and had, at long last, finally gotten over myself.

Listen, loves, the point here (if there is one), is this: Is there an unsung hero, an Auntie or Uncle either by birth or just their proximity, around you now? Please, please, will you say thank you and buy them a cupcake? From me?

Carry on,



Swiping Left ~ An Exercise in Self-Preservation

“If you sucked all the thoughts out of your head, you’d find nothing but peace.”
~ Jill Whalen

Swiping left is the new “talk to the hand”. At least it is for me.
(I know “talk to the hand” is so prehistoric that if it were a meme it would be that meme that made us all laugh our asses off last week—but now, when we see it, it only makes us cringe.)

So it’s the new “Bye, Felicia”… I know.

It’s get lost and kiss my ass all rolled up in the simple flick of the wrist. What more could you want from life?

So I’ve made it a practice to mentally “swipe left” when I’m searching for peace of mind by feeling dismissive.

Like now.

Dear 4,768th Blue Host renewal notice. I get it. You expire in March. Calm the fuck down — I’m swiping left.

Dear shitty thought in the middle of the night (which I can’t remember —but was epically terrifying). You know who you are. The one that woke me up and got me all sweaty in the pits and girly bits — I’m swiping left.

Dear sun-in-my-eyes while I write this because it’s winter and shade is nonexistent because the trees have no leaves and the sun is so low it feels like it has to try harder — I’m swiping left.

Dear Starbucks app. Sometimes I want to kiss you on the lips, but mostly you suck. Is this only in LA? — I’m swiping left.

Dear mirror, mirror on the wall. WHAT ARE YOU LOOKING AT?! — I’m swiping left.

Dear static electricity. You made my dress stick in my ass all day and you shocked me with such ferocity you nearly blew off the tip of my finger — I’m swiping left.

Dear Siri, you are useless and annoy me to no end — I’m swiping left.

Dear wine. Why have you forsaken me? — I’m swiping left.

Dear estrogen. Same question. — I’m swiping left.

Dear whiff of a thought of swimsuit shopping for my sixtieth birthday trip to a spa. You are one sadistic bitch — I’m swiping left.

Dear gnarly protein drink that was supposed to taste like a Frappuccino. Just so you know, false advertising is a criminal offense — I’m swiping left.

Dear everybody in Washington D.C.,  I will continue to look at you through my fingers like I do when I watch a horror movie. You are all scary as fuckI’m swiping left.

You guys have got to try this. It really works.

Swiping left on Y’all now,


Compassion. It Interrupted​ a Fight and Then It Saved My Marriage. Throwback 2015


So I’ve been thinking…
Have I ever been brave enough to sidestep​ an emotional tsunami filled with mean-spirited accusations and diminishing love that was headed straight for my marriage?

The answer, after searching the archives of my menopausal mind, turning over every rock and remembering the times when the shit hit the fan was …once.

It was one night, inside one fight, but sometimes that’s all it takes to turn a situation on its head and start over. 

I remember it clear as day because my husband and I don’t really argue that much. We bicker and disagree, but rarely does it escalate into a full-blown fight.

This day was different, and the reason behind it was palpable – FEAR.

My store, the business that held all of our proverbial eggs in its basket, had flooded and closed. Insurance was in full jackassery mode, and the situation appeared bleak. Bleak is an understatement; it was a clusterfuck on steroids.

He had been letting me handle most of the fallout while keeping a watchful distance. I was grateful and full of resentment all at the same time.
Wait. This was the hardest time of my life. Weren’t we a team?

Our we project in good times had become a me situation now that it was damaged beyond repair.

But to be fair, I hadn’t included him in much of the business set-up. He didn’t know the in’s and out’s of my insurance​ policy, and besides, I had managed to establish an uneasy alliance with all the players so they only wanted to deal with ME. He felt it best to keep his distance and watch it play out.

One evening, after peppering me with questions, those inquiries turned quickly to accusations. I, of course, became defensive. “Oh nice of you to finally join the circus, welcome to MY world!”  I sneered sarcastically. As he realized the gravity of the situation, things escalated. Name-calling ensued; lots of fuck you’s were thrown around — it turned ugly.

“How could you let this happen?” He yelled at me ​as if I could have somehow prevented an act of God. “You said you could make this business work! You sold me a bill of goods, what the fuck happens now?”

How did I know?

Bill of goods?? I was just as overwhelmed as he was except this had been my dream, a dream that was now covered with a stench I could not escape — failure.

Here was my partner, my best friend; how had he become so insensitive? Couldn’t he see I was suffering, treading water just to keep from drowning in despair?

“I won’t cry…I won’t let myself cry…” was my mantra, knowing that when I get that angry I can’t contain the tears.

I reverted back to a default setting from my childhood; Stoic Sadness – I wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of breaking down. I would not let him know how much this hurt.

The fight was gaining momentum, words were on the tips of our tongues that could never be taken back, hurts leveled that would cut too deep to heal — it needed to be stopped.

In the process of verbally winding up for the knock out punch I took a good look at him with eyes so clouded with rage it made me nauseous. And that’s when it hit me – I was struck by a thunderbolt of…Compassion.
It forced me to look again, and this time I could really see him. He was scared, just as scared as I was, maybe even more so. Hundreds of thousands of dollars were lost, lawsuits were pending, and his wife was a hot mess.

Something made me get up and walk over to him sitting there in his chair. I had no idea what the next moment would bring. I didn’t have a plan. I was “winging it”.

My posture was such that it made him recoil. I remember thinking: that’s funny, he thinks I’m gonna punch him in the face, and let me tell you, his fears were not unfounded. There was a fist and a knock-out punch with his name on it—if only I were the face punching type.

Instead, I unclenched my fist, opened my hand, and offered it to him. It was a gesture that only confused matters.

He looked down at it and then up into my eyes.
Did I see…contempt?
I stood fast, my hand extended—this was a matter of life and death — our marriage was on the ropes.

“What?” he looked at my hand and shrugged like a punk.

“Come on, let’s go,” I wasn’t taking no for an answer.
I probably stood there for a good two and a half minutes, hand extended, while he considered the offer.

“What are you doing? Where are we going?” he asked.

“Just come with me.” I exhaled impatiently. Maybe this had been a mistake.

Slowly he rose out of his chair, shoulders sagging, eyes to the floor. His six-foot-three​ frame folded in on itself.

I took his hand, guiding him through the living room and down the hall. “What are you doing?” he sounded like a confused little boy. He wasn’t mad anymore, just worn down, vulnerable.

We kept moving forward.

I didn’t say anything, I wasn’t even sure what I was doing. All I knew is that I was headed for our bed.

I laid down crossways on top of the bedspread, never letting go of his hand. His face read: If you think I’m going to have sex with you, you’re nuts, but that wasn’t my intention. We needed something more than sex could provide.

The bed became a life raft on which to ride out the tsunami.

Begrudgingly, he lay down beside me as I positioned our bodies face to face. When I moved in closer, he moved away. So much for being best friends, we had turned into adversaries​, total strangers whose faces were now inches apart.

Looking at him in that moment, he was not the grown man who had been raging at me just minutes before – I saw a very scared nine-year-old​ boy – and that started to soften my heart.

“We need to remember what we love about each other,” I whispered softly as I stared into his eyes, digging deep to think of something to say.

I feared he would get up at any moment and bolt for the door, but he just lay there, emotionally exhausted.

Tentatively, haltingly, I began.

“I love your eyes.” he closed them briefly, a long blink.
“I love the way you smell.” I started with the easy stuff.
“I love what a good doggie daddy you are.”

Did he crack a smile? If he had it was gone in a flash.

He wasn’t making it easy, but I continued undaunted for another few minutes until momentum began to build.

“I love your funny French accent.” I was on a roll. “I love how you mix your metaphors ​and invent names for things…like Ricky Ricardo does…”

He interrupted, “I love how that makes you laugh — every time.”

Now we were both laughing. Then he pulled me close, burying my face in his chest — and our laughter turned to sobs.

“I love what a big crybaby you are,” I mumbled into my best friend’s chest after a couple of minutes.

That made us both giggle uncontrollably, like teenagers, and suddenly I felt safe again.

I exhaled a huge sigh of relief knowing that in that moment, we were a team again, we had found our momentarily misplaced love, and by the Grace. Of. God. Something much bigger than the both of us – Compassion had saved my marriage.

Carry On,

*Holy Crap you guys,
This was a hard one to write and re-live. SUCH a painful time for us. My hope is that maybe you’ll think of this during the next big fight, and take a second look at the person and the situation. Compassion is an equal-opportunity-saver of anything for those who are willing to be happy—instead of right.

Listen, I know that by the Grace of God you guys have turned some horrible situations around too––Care to share?


Where Does The Striving Go?


Trust? Fuck that! What do I do with the striving?

In recent years my highly structured, fully scheduled life has transformed. Most days it falls under the heading of—freeform flexibility.

And I’ve gotta tell ya, at first that terrified me! Like, monster in the basement, black nipple hair terrified!

Ima girl who likes me a little structure.

Actually, I’ve always been someone who thrived in a highly structured environment. I guess that should come as no surprise since I spent my formative years under my mother’s strict surveillance which was aided and abetted to by the nuns at my Catholic school.

As a child, I was a rule follower. Later, I viewed rules more like suggestions. I would cherry-pick them. I’d adhere to ones I liked—the ones that kept me safe, the ones that kept chaos at bay…and the rest I would break (because they were stupid—and superfluous—duh).

Even now I’m guilty of rolling stops at stop signs, jaywalking, walking my old dog without a leash and driving well over the speed limit; just to name a few. But if you give me a starting and an ending time I arrive early and get everything accomplished within that boundary.
That is a superpower I developed as a child.

And probably just like you, I became a striver.

1. Make great efforts to achieve or obtain something.
2. Struggle or fight vigorously

Check both of those boxes, please!

I would strive to get my work done.
I would strive to be the best.
I would strive to break new ground.

I strove and I strove and all of that striving became (or maybe was always) a part of my DNA.

After my life fell apart in 2009 (long story having to do with an epic urban flood) chaos reigned. My life no longer had any structure. I wasn’t expected anywhere at any time. And the grown-up rules like working hard, buying insurance, and seeming to do everything right—had failed me.

I fell into a funk and lived in smelly, unwashed sweats for months.

Luckily, (thank gawd) my inner striver kicked in. It self-motivated me to treat every day like a job. I got up, showered, did my hair and make-up and attempted to restructure my life. Eventually, I became a writer, and writers, I came to find out, function under mostly self-imposed deadlines.

Writers also rely on inspiration, and as I would slowly learn, striving and inspiration aren’t even in the same zip code. One requires trust, the other, grit, and effort.

You cannot “try” to get a good idea. That’s like “trying” to get turned on. It’s a losing proposition.

I learned that you have to develop flexibility in creativity. Inspiration comes when it’s god damn good and ready to show up and not one second sooner! So, those times when it’s not flowing are great opportunities to clean out your closet, research health insurance, take a walk or read a magazine. Anything but strive.

I felt like I’d gotten pretty good at this the last five years or so (the first nine I sucked). I would even go so far as to say I got so chill that it often made me wonder where on earth my striving went.

I’m not-so-pleased to report that I have found it lurking in the most unlikely of places—my jaw.

So, even though I could easily say that this is the least stressful time of my life—by a long shot—I clench my jaw every night as if my life depended on it. I wake up every morning with jaw pain so severe it feels as if I’ve spent my night with the circus, holding the weight of ten men with only my teeth while spinning upside down thirty feet in the air (while wearing no underwear).

One morning, in meditation, I asked about the source of my jaw pain.

What did you do with all of that striving? Where do you think it went?  They answered.


Back to the drawing board! Apparently, old habits die hard and my striving may be out-of-sight but it certainly isn’t out-of-mind. (Cue the dramatic battle music—and the British accent) I must vanquish it completely or suffer the consequences!

What to do? What to do?…Any suggestions?

Carry on,


Stop Going To The Hardware Store For Milk ~ Thursday Throwback​


I love this post by Liz Gilbert.
I was going to write a similar one (ya huh, yes I was, she just beat me to it—with a catchier meme and a better graphic that’s all).

Anyway…it was going to be based on this quote:

“If you ask someone for something, make sure they are the person that has the power to give it.”

Which has a similar connotation (yes it does, ​quit arguing), that being: GO TO THE RIGHT SOURCE FOR WHAT YOU WANT (yes, that was yelling—no, I’m not mad, it’s meant to make a point).

Oh for crying out loud you’re so feisty!
Take it away Liz~


I was introduced to this expression the other day by a friend of this page (thank you, Kim!) and I’m in love with it already. Please interpret as you like, as it applies to your own life.

Is there a love relationship that isn’t working out for you, because you keep trying to get milk from that hardware store — and all they offer is hammers and drills?

Is there a job that isn’t working out for you, because you keep wandering the aisles of that hardware store, looking for milk, and coming up with…well…screws?

Is there a spiritual or religious path that has become frustrating for you, because every time you ask them for sweet, sweet milk, they merely direct you to the section of the store that sells plumbing equipment and padlocks?

Is there a city that you can’t stand living in anymore because they simply don’t sell the kind of milk there that you need?

Do you find yourself getting angry at the hardware store (whatever “hardware store” may represent for you) for never having milk — instead of asking yourself why you keep searching for milk at a place that never gives you anything but cans of pain-thinner and turpentine?

Is it maybe time to stop going to the hardware store for milk?
Is it time to admit this isn’t working?
Is it maybe time to find your nourishment elsewhere?




SNL Nailed It!

So, you guys, I saw this on Saturday and I almost choked on my mouthful of M&M’s.

It perfectly re-enacts every dinner party, birthday party, and gathering of four or more thinking, breathing adults I’ve been at the past few months.

Five of us tried to talk abut this skit Sunday and I have to tell you, I tiptoed around the edges of the topic and the laughter was nervous. WTF?

The complexities (and there are complexities) —areas other than black or white—of the #metoo #timesup movement have become conversational hot potatoes.

Uncomfortable? You bet.
Worthy of discussion? Absolutely!
Time for change? Long overdue!
Funny as hell? You be the judge?

Maybe we all need to lighten up even if it’s for just four minutes.

Carry on,


Be the Eye


I was talking by to a dear friend today about meditation and what a challenge it can be trying to fit this annoying exercise in futility invaluable tool into our busy lives.

“I’m lucky to grab five minutes!” She explained as we shared a decadent grilled cheese, tomato and ham sandwich from one of our favorite local haunts.

“That’s better than nothing” I replied with a mouth full of golden, drippy cheese.

“Yeah, well, just as I sat down to meditate yesterday, my husband barged into the room and ruined the vibe.”

Don’t you hate when that happens? I fucking hate when that happens!

It seems like just when I settle in, the gardener shows up with his bliss-shattering leaf-blower. Or my fifty-pound dog decides to jump in my lap.

I hate the interruption—but I don’t let it derail me. Let me explain.

As I’ve expressed here many times, I sucked at mediation…for decades!
I strained and struggled, I sought out the advice of gurus and I studied it endlessly.

One meditation teacher I had back in the early 80’s played loud music, usually Led Zeppelin, for an hour as we, his devoted idiots, students, sat in lotus, desperately trying not to mouth the lyrics. “Quiet the mind!” He’d yell over the voice Robert Plant.

Yeah, right.

One guy who was supposedly an Enlightened Master had us try to meditate with our feet submerged in ice water. That only made me have to pee.

Another teacher used the sounds of the city to try to sharpen our focus. She’d swing the doors and windows wide open allowing the symphony of traffic and sirens to bounce off the walls surrounding us in noise.

You guys, I sucked so bad at all of this. I mean, SO bad.

Trying to wrangle my focus long enough to settle my mind seemed as unattainable as a twenty-two inch waist.

Finally, my Shaman, yes, I had a kind of personal pocket-Shaman in the nineties, (long story) had no patience whatsoever for my endless complaining. “It’s easy to meditate in a dark and quiet room”, he’d say. “Child’s play!”

Yeah, right.

“The goal is to find stillness inside of the chaos.”

Didn’t I see that on a bumper sticker or an ad for Ambien?

“Right. Stillness inside chaos. Tell that to my monkey mind. It’s throwing its own poop right now!

Silently, (because who can argue with that compelling an image) he walked me over to a computer and pulled up a picture of a hurricane from Space.

“Look at this. Nature knows. See the eye? The eye is stillness inside of chaos. Be the eye.”

Well, shit.

But ya know what? One day all of that practice I’d had at focusing my mind in the midst of chaos paid off. I’m pretty sure I could meditate for a least five minutes next to a jack hammer—because I’ve done it!

And if you can do that, the next thing you’ll notice is that you won’t lose your mind in traffic—you won’t blow a gasket in the ten-items-or-less line at the supermarket when the guy in front of you has ten cases of different soups that have to be scanned separately—and you can sit with a group of co-workers, serenely sipping your latte while Bob, the guy in accounting, talks on and on about how Trump has made America great again.

All of this to say, practice pays off you guys. Five minutes leads to seven, seven minutes leads to ten, and the next thing you know, you’ll be so removed from the chaos you won’t know where your nose is or even if you have a face—and you won’t hear the timer go off.

I promise.

Trust me, it can happen. I’ve cleaned many a poopy wall—I know the struggle is real!

Carry on,


Autobiography In Five Chapters


Hi all,
I remember reading this back in the day and wanting to vomit. Not because it was bad. On the contrary, because it was so fucking accurate!

It was the mid nineties and not only did my street have a hole, the hole was surrounded by flares and yellow caution tape—and I still fell in!

Not only that, sometimes it felt like a water slide had been constructed on my street, you know, to make direct entry into the hole that much faster and easier.

Show of hands, how many of us have battled that hole for YEARS until finally (by the grace of God) it dawned on us to WALK DOWN ANOTHER STREET?

Let the record show that BOTH of my hands are raised.

If you read this and it doesn’t hit you in that place that makes you slap your forehead, and puke a little in your own mouth…you’re lying.

Carry on,


Autobiography in Five Chapters
by Portia Nelson


I walk down the street.
There is a deep hole in the sidewalk
I fall in.
I am lost…
I am hopeless.
It isn’t my fault.
It takes forever to find a way out.


I walk down the same street.
There is a deep hole in the sidewalk.
I pretend I don’t see it.
I fall in again.
I can’t believe I’m in the same place.
But it isn’t my fault.
It still takes a long time to get out.


I walk down the same street.
There is a deep hole in the sidewalk.
I see it is there.
I still fall in…it’s a habit
My eyes are open; I know where I am;
It is my fault.
I get out immediately.


I walk down the same street.
There is a deep hole in the sidewalk.
I walk around it.


I walk down another street.

Copyright (c) 1993, by Portia Nelson from the book There’s A Hole in My Sidewalk. 


Try To Suck Less


Tim: “…And Chris, that last song?”

Chris: “Yeah, I know, I came in late… It sucked.”

Tim: “Okay, so, I guess my note on that would be—try to suck less.”

Last Saturday, we held a rehearsal for Act I of the musical I co-wrote with my friend and collaborator, Les. It was only our third read-thru so as expected it was very stoppy-starty in the music department and generally clunky around the edges.

It was also the best time I’ve had with my clothes on!

The cast is made up of a bunch of Improv veterans, the most delicious gay man with the most fabulous handlebar mustache imaginable, and the lead is a dude who can sing your pants off. Seriously. When he sings my pants struggle to stay on.

Anyway, when I hear my words said by smart, funny people and when they sing the music we wrote, I float out of my body and hang out up on the ceiling with a box of Kleenex and a bag of popcorn.

Once they finished, the director, Tim, cleared his throat and went page by page giving “notes.” “Notes” in the theatre is a nice way of saying criticism. The director has the unenviable job of telling the actors what needs work.

“Try to suck less.”

The room erupted in laughter. I think I peed a little.

That is the best “note” ever given in the history of notes and one that I want to pay forward.

Whether we’re learning something new—flubbing something familiar—or seriously fucking up in the most heinous way imaginable—I have only one note for us—

Try to suck less.

Laugh it off.

Grab a beer.

Do better next time, and…

Don’t take ourselves so fucking seriously!

Carry on,


My version of life. My stories. Told in my own words.

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