Raindrops Keep Falling On My Head.

So I was driving home a little while ago as usual, listening to the radio and trying not to hydroplane. It’s raining, obviously. So anyways, the DJ made some remark about the way people in NY drive in the rain, a d that it’s almost as bad as the first snowfall and how people drive like they’ve never driven in snow before. No offense to my fellow new Yorkers or northerners (is that even a word, hmm), but the guy has a point. I’ve lived here my entire life and even I have to admit that driving in the first few rain showers or snow takes a little getting used to each year. It’s kind of like getting your “land-legs” back after you’ve been on a boat for a while. Okay, not the best metaphor, but you get the point. Anyways, back to the rain. Rain, rain, rain. Don’t ask me why, but I absolutely just LOVE the rain. I really do. Whether it’s just a light mist or a torrential downpour (like it is outside right now)– I love every kind. If I had to choose, I’d say that I’m partial to the down pouring kind. Rain, wind, thunder, and lightning–I love it. It’s like it has its own energy, you know? Or that’s how it seems to me at least. Sometimes I’ll just open a window or walk outside in a storm and just close my eyes and feel it. The mist on my skin, the rain pouring down and the wind whipping my hair out of sorts–it’s amazing. Maybe I’m crazy, but it’s so peaceful and tranquil and at the same time it’s raw fury and pure chaos. I know, I know. I’m a sap and a dork and probably half a dozen other things, but I don’t care. I love love love rain.

Alas, my focal point of today’s post isn’t to go on and on about my love of weather. Almost, but not quite. Rain is part of it, though. Rain and memory lane, that is. Some of my best and worst memories are associated, in some part, with rain. True story. Even HIM. That first night, it was raining. Sounds sappy, right? Yeah, I know. But it was. It’s weird what you remember about certain things, moments that changed your life forever. Like that night. Like the rain. Maybe I have it all backwards. Maybe the rain is a sign or something, a warning to turn and run like hell. Of impending doom. Maybe. I guess that’s just another item I can add to my list of “things to figure out”, who knows. I can’t help what I remember though. And I obviously have no control over the weather, so whatever. It was raining and it was perfect. At least that night. It was before all the lies and shame and fighting–before reality swooped in and destroyed it all. If nothing else, at least I’ll always have that night. Laying in the grass, under a blanket of stars and the dark of night…me, him…and the rain. The most amazing night of my life, and also the worst.

Like a lot of things in life, nothing ever quite lives up to the first times, or the first moments. That’s just how it is. Not that we don’t try to prove that untrue. We try. We try as hard as we can and if we’re lucky, we come close. But we never get all of it. We can never recreate those moments, not exactly. Strange how that is, isn’t it? It’s hard though. Memories. Moments. Looking back. It’s taken me a long time to like the rain again. It’s bittersweet. At first, after things fell apart, I hated the rain. Hated it. I hated what it symbolized and the memories it brought back. Of him. Mostly, I think I just hated the feelings that came with it, feelings I wanted more than anything to just erase and forget. Logically, I know it’s not the rain. The rain doesn’t really even have anything to do with it. It’s me. My pain, my guilt, and the shame I still feel because of what happened.

I know that I have to face what’s been done. To deal with it and move on. And I’m trying to do that. Honestly, I am. But it’s not as easy as people think or how I thought it would be. It’s so very hard. And it hurts. Sometimes I don’t know what hurts more, remembering or wanting to forget. I’m not sure if that even makes sense. I mean, sure, the memories are always going to bring along with them the hurt. But it’s the forgetting part that seems the hardest. In some strange sense, I feel like I’m doing something wrong by wanting to let things go. Guilty for wanting to move on. It’s crazy, right? I mean, he has, so why can’t I? Why do I feel like I’m giving up, like I’m giving in and taking the easy way out? Why can’t I forget and move on like he has? Why can’t I pretend and act as if nothing ever happened? I want to be happy, too. I want to move on, write him off like he did me, and just let him and all of it go. Is that so wrong? God knows I’ve done my share of suffering from this, from the fallout. I’ve accepted my dues, and I’ve taken responsibility for my actions, my share of the blame. I’ve made sacrifices, lost more than anyone knows, more than they will ever know. I deserve a break. A reprieve. I deserve get on with my life. At least I think I have.

But no matter what I do, it just gets harder and harder. People are making it more complicated, why can’t they see that? Especially recently. With the talk and the emails and the drama. I can’t get away from it, no matter how far I run or how far I go. When is it going to be enough? I’ve pushed people away, I’ve lost friends because of this, I’ve lost myself…I don’t know what I’m supposed to do. Sometimes, I really think that it’s not going to be enough for them, for the world, until I’ve lost everything. And that’s not fair. I’m sorry, but it’s not. I screwed up. I get that. I admit it. But do I really deserve to pay for that one mistake the rest of my life? Because if so, then I’m not doing it. I won’t do it. I’m sick of being reminded of it all the time. If it’s not one thing, it’s something else. It’s some sarcastic, offhand remark. The mention of his name. It’s driving and somehow ending up at a place we went to on his lunch break. It’s everything. That place, our spot–even that isn’t the same anymore. I went there yesterday. I was driving and I know it sounds stupid and pathetic, but I just sort of ended up there. I don’t know why, but one minute I was driving and the next minute I was getting out of the car there. I can’t say why exactly, but I just started crying and couldn’t stop. Maybe it was the memories of that place, I don’t know. Maybe because, looking around, I realized how much the place had changed. Or maybe it just seems like that to me, not having been there in so long. It’s weird, but it seems like a whole lifetime has passed since I was there last. With him. It was a beautiful spot. Nowhere in particular, just this secluded area in an open field in the country. It used to be pretty and warm and quiet. And now it’s just cold. Not because of the weather or the temperature though. I can’t really explain it. It just felt so cold. It’s still quiet, only not in the peaceful, serene way that I remember. No, quiet like dead. The silence deafening and scary. I don’t know how long I cried for, just standing there. It hurt. So much. Because not even the pretty memories can make up for what has been lost, or how much everything has changed. It’s all gone now. It’s just another random spot on some back road in the country that once was beautiful. A place that holds too many bittersweet and painful memories. A place that no matter what happens from here on out, will never be the same. The circle of life, I guess you might call it. Or a step towards letting go and moving on. Taking back control and accepting what cannot be changed. Or maybe it’s a bittersweet kind of ending. A goodbye, of sorts…

And all because of a little rain….



Goodbye Drama.

Do you ever get so angry with people, that you could just scream? I do. These days especially. what annoyed me more than usual today was an email someone sent me. I won’t say what was said exactly, but the gist of it was asking me about something that to be honest, is none of anyone’s business. I’m sorry if that sounds harsh, but it just isn’t. I don’t understand why it’s so hard for people to accept that and leave me alone. I’m not being a bitch here, but it’s seriously trying my patience, what little I have left, that is. I don’t get it. I mean, my life isn’t interesting, at least not that much. and yet people think it is. they must, or they wouldn’t be doing the “twenty questions” thing so much.

I really wish they would just back off. it’s not that difficult. If I want you to know something, then I’ll tell you. and if I don’t, then obviously I have nothing to say. it’s that simple. why is it so hard for people to respect boundaries? I mean, they’re there for a reason, and not for show. they make me so mad when they act like I owe them an explanation or something. the way I see it, is that I don’t owe them a damn thing. and I sure as hell shouldn’t have to explain myself and the things I do to them. to anyone. this is my life, after all. my business. I’m not going to pacify anyone by saying otherwise either.

That’s one of the disadvantages of living in a small town. everyone knows everyone and everything. it’s hard to keep a secret for very long. eventually, the truth comes out and everyone can see. I hate it, I really do. I hate that everyone has to be in everyone else’s business, thinking they have every right to be. which they don’t. people talk and gossip abounds. That’s small town life for you. It practically feeds off gossip and rumors in order to sustain itself, which is seriously messed up. There’s always drama, no matter where you go or what you do. And people love it. Except I don’t love it. In fact, I cannot stand it. There’s no point to it. It just makes things harder and worse. As for my present issue, I’m beginning to get fed up with the whole thing. People really need to do something, other than worrying about my life and what has been done. They need to get a hobby or even a life, for that matter. They need to worry about themselves and their problems, instead of focusing on me and mine. They need to stop re-hashing my past or even talking about it at all.

I used to not give a damn what people thought or said about me. I still don’t care, to an extent. I mean, people are always going to talk crap or spread rumors or cause drama. There’s nothing I can do about that, as much as I’d like to. These days, I don’t really talk to anyone. For good reasons, I should add. I don’t want people knowing certain things. Judging me or what I’ve done. Why should I tell them anything? It’s just a waste of time because I know full well that no matter what I say or what answers I give, they aren’t going to believe me anyways. And they’re definitely not going to understand. They need to move on, that’s what they need to do. What they SHOULD do. But they won’t. My life is complicated enough without anyone adding to it. When is it going to be enough for them. When are they going to stop trying to grill me for answers to certain questions they have no right to even being asking. Why can’t they see and understand that I need time. And space. Away from them, away from everything. I’m trying to move on, to put the past behind me where it belongs, but no one seems to want to let me do that. Why is that, I wonder. If they actually cared, that’s one thing, but they don’t care. Not really. They just want something to talk about. I refuse to give them anything. I won’t be something or someone they can use to gossip about. I won’t do it. And if people want to hate or be angry with me because of that, well so be it. I don’t care. Not anymore. And if they can’t accept or respect that, then I don’t want them in my life. Even if that means being alone the rest of my life. I’m sorry if they don’t like that, but that’s the reality of the situation.

I’m done pretending that it’s okay for them to do it when it’s not okay. I don’t need their permission or approval. I don’t need or want their help or so-called advice. I don’t need their judgment or their opinions. I don’t need them. I’m doing just fine without all the chaos and drama all these months. Things aren’t perfect or great, not even close, but things are okay enough for me. I’ve made it this far, haven’t I? Without their interference, no offense or anything. It’s the truth.

I’ve had enough…


Into The Abyss.

Hey….just a little annoyed at the moment. For the usual reasons. Family. Life. All of it. It seems as though everyone has an opinion these days about the way I choose to live MY life. I get it, I do. Their intentions are good and I know that they only want me to be happy. But sometimes…sometimes I just want to scream. To tell them all to back the f*** off, you know? I’m 23 years old, not some 5-year-old child who needs handholding. You’d think they’d know me by now. If they do, apparently they just don’t care. Or something like that. There’s no winning with them. It’s like no matter what I do, they always have something to say. Do this, do that. Go back to school. Choose a major and stick with it. Figure out what you want to do with your life. And so on. Ugh, I hate it!! They act like it’s so simple and so easy. But it’s not. I’m not like them. I don’t want to have my life planned out for me. I hate plans! I hate doing what’s expected of me, according to them. What is so wrong with letting the pieces fall into place of their own volition? Why can’t they see that all the pressure and their unrealistic expectations are what screwed me up in the first place? Why?

I tried doing it their way. I got the straight-a’s like they wanted. I got the full ride to an Ivy League university. I didn’t party or do drugs or get into trouble. I was the good girl. Just like they wanted me to be. But that’s NOT me. I’m not good or perfect. I have flaws and I screw up. I don’t want to walk the straight and narrow line they’ve drawn out for me. I don’t want to play it safe or live by their rules. Or anyone else’s, for that matter. I want to learn from the mistakes that I’VE made and not theirs. I want to take risks, even if I lose everything. I want to LIVE.

Perfect is my sister. Not me. She’s the level-headed one. She did everything right. Good grades, didn’t party, graduated from a good college, and became a teacher. She even did the whole “love” thing right. She just got married in July to the same guy she’s been with since college. Her first and only serious relationship. Eight years. That’s how long they’ve been together before they got married. She’s doing everything by the book. School first, career second, and now a family. I love my sister, truly I do. She’s a good person, inside and out. But sometimes it’s hard to believe that we’re actually sisters, let alone that we’re even related at all. We’re complete opposites, in every way. She’s responsible and rational and plans–she loves plans. Her life is like a textbook checklist. If I had to choose only one word to describe her, it would be SAFE. Not that safe is a bad thing necessarily, because it’s not. It works for her. She’s successful and happy and I’m happy for her. I am.

But that’s not me. I’m stubborn and impulsive and reckless. I take risks and make mistakes, a lot of them. I’m flighty and I get bored easily. I’ll try anything once, without or within reason. She trusts too much, and I don’t trust enough. She had her traditional, fairy-tale wedding. White dress, the church, lots of friends and family around–the whole thing. And me–I’m more the girl that would up and run off to Vegas to elope, or get married at sunset on a beach somewhere barefoot, or during the week when most people are still at work. That’s more my style. She believes in happily-ever-afters and loving one person for the rest of her life. And that’s great. It is. It’s not that I don’t believe in those things or think it isn’t possible. I think it CAN happen for some people. The lucky ones. It’s not really me though. Sure, someday I’d like to get married and settle down. I want those things just as much as the next person. But I’m not so naive that I don’t think it might not last. People change, love fades, and people get divorced. It happens. That’s just a fact of life. You don’t always know what’s going to happen. I’m just trying to be realistic, I guess. The point is, I’m not my sister and I’m never going to be. I don’t want to be her either. She’s the stable, logical one and I’m always going to be the head-in-the-clouds, daydreaming gypsy. I hate safe. I hate feeling tied-down and smothered by society and everyone else’s rules. This is, after all, MY life. Mine.

I plan on going back to school. But on my terms and my timetable, not theirs. I’ll go back when I’m ready and not a moment before. I need time though. Time to decide what I want and what I want to be. I need to figure that out before I can do anything, or I’ll just end up wasting my time and theirs, like I did before. I know too many people who went to college, got a degree, and yet their lives are miserable and complacent. I don’t want that to be me. Trapped in a career that I hate, always thinking about what’s on the other side of that #2 door, always wanting and searching for more. Not me.

I love rocks and volcanoes and digging in dirt for fossils, but geology isn’t for me. Science is supposed to be fun, and not work. I love writing, but do I really want to end up in some cubicle at some newspaper, giving people the same news scoop that’s going to be printed in every paper in the nation? I don’t know if that’s what I want. I do know though, that I don’t want to write because I have to if I want that paycheck on Friday. No. I want to write because I WANT TO write. Because it’s something I enjoy and love to do. I want to write about things that actually have meaning, that mean something to me. Things that are important to me and that I’m passionate about. I want to travel and see as much of the world as I possibly can. I want to go to a third-world country and see for myself what life there is like. I want to write about the truth and take pictures for the world to see what I’ve seen. I don’t my words or the truth to be censored or edited by some corporate exec sitting behind some desk that has no clue what life is like outside his big, shiny office with a great view. I want people to see the world through my eyes, my point of view.

I just want my life to mean something, you know? I want to join the Peace Corps and help as many people as I can. I want to stand on the front lines and know how it truly feels to fight for something you believe in, something that’s actually worth it. I want to make a difference, even if it’s just a small thing. I want to understand. To know what all this means. I want to feel complete, for once in my life. To be able to honestly say when I die that I have lived. That I’ve seen the world. I’ve seen heaven and the depths of hell. That I’ve laughed and I’ve cried. That I’ve loved and I’ve lost. More than anything, I want the world to know that I was here.

I don’t want fame or infamy, or to go down in history. My desires are far more simple and less superficial than that. I want to be known for being unknown, if that makes any sense at all. I don’t need the world to know my name. I want to be nobody. Nameless, faceless in a crowd. I don’t want glory or power or riches. All I want is the ultimate reward for a life lived. It doesn’t come with a price tag. It’s not easily given or achieved. It’s earned. Happiness. That’s what I want. Doesn’t everyone?

Yikes. Yeah….well now that I feel like I’ve just written a term paper for the philosophy course I took a couple years back…I write the weirdest things. Oh well…. 🙂


What If I…

Do you ever find yourself thinking about where you’d be today or what your life might have been like, had you not done this or done that? If only you’d done things differently. Sort of a had you taken the “road not taken” kind of question. These days, all I seem to do is ask me these questions. It’s not that I’m one of those people who live in the past and can’t move forward, because I’m really not. I just wonder, that’s all. For as far back as I can remember, I’ve always asked the hard questions. I take things personally and feel things hard. Maybe too much sometimes. I can’t help it. It’s just who I am. I’m sensitive and emotional, and I still don’t know if that’s a good thing or not. I haven’t always been like this. I wear my heart and emotions on my sleeve. I tend to speak my mind, think later, as my family says. A trait that has landed me in hot water on several occasions, as you can imagine. It’s maddening though. It’s like the older I get, the more emotional I get and I don’t like it. Simply put, it sucks. Especially because I’ve learned that it’s easier to just keep my feelings and thoughts to myself. You can’t get hurt as much that way. I know, I know. It’s not healthy and whatever and that I should talk and trust people more, but I can’t do that.

I haven’t always been so closed-off like this. I used to be able to tell people everything, my grandmother for one. When I was little, we were so close. I told her everything. I think it had a lot to do with me being the youngest of the grandkids, the “baby”. I’m not gonna lie. I was spoiled. A lot. Or as my grams would put it, “loved a lot.” I can remember when I was really little, before I started school so maybe three or four years old. I remember watching the older kids leave on the bus for school every morning, and my grams and I would have the rest of the day to ourselves. I loved it. I miss it. One of my oldest memories of my grams and I was my first day of kindergarten. I remember standing outside the school, holding my grandmother’s hand, crying and begging her not to make me go inside. I remember her crouching down next to me and smiling as she wiped my tears with the sleeve of her shirt. And I remember what she told me next. She told me that if I really didn’t want to go inside, then she wouldn’t make me. And she wouldn’t have either. If I’d asked, she would’ve taken me back home with her. Yes, I was THAT spoiled. Then she said that I should try it, just for the day, and that I might just end up liking it. I remember her telling me not to be scared and then she promised two things. That everything would be okay, and that no matter what, she’d always be there waiting at the bus stop when I came home. Now that I’m older of course, I know that she had just been using that “reverse psychology” tactic adults are famous for. Basically it’s to get kids to do what they don’t want to do, by convincing them that the decision is theirs to make, albeit it really is not. Sneaky, yes. But it works. Weird how that is, but yeah. Thinking about that day, it makes me wish I was five years old again. It was so much simpler then. When boys still had cooties and you got bruised knees rather than bruised hearts. I wish I could be that innocent again.

But things change. You grow up and you realize that the world just isn’t as black-and-white as you were led to believe. That nothing is what it seems. You realize that all the kisses in the world can’t make the hurt go away. And those promises can’t be kept forever. It’s life. Growing up. It sucks. I wish I could be that trusting little five year old girl again, that I could still cry to my grams and she’d make everything okay. But she can’t fix this. So much has happened. Good and bad. I’m not that little girl though. I’m 23, I have responsibilities. And secrets, I have so many of those. Sometimes I wonder what my grams would think if she knew the truth. If I told her everything. She’d be so disappointed. Even I am sometimes. The reality is that she can’t make it okay. She can’t clean up the mess I’ve made of my life. She can’t change me. I can’t change how I feel or how good I’ve become at keeping things to myself, at shutting people out. It’s like some kind of defense mechanism I have, I don’t know. But sometimes it just makes it all worse.

Anyways, back to my original focus. What ifs and regrets. Believe it or not, I don’t have many regrets, not really. Are there things I would have done differently? Sure. But as the saying goes, you can’t regret something that once made you smile. Whatever I’ve done, at some point it was what I wanted. It’s that simple. But things don’t always work out the way you would have liked them to. I should know. My life is a perfect, constant example of that. Like Mr. shouldve-known-better (and yeah I need a new nickname for him I think). I don’t regret him. Honest. Would it probably be easier if I did? If I hated him? Probably. Everyone thinks I’m crazy because I don’t, but they don’t understand. Sometimes I get so mad that I want to scream, but I don’t. I sit there and I don’t say a word when they say that I’m better off without him and that it’s for the best. It’s easier to just let them say what they’re going to say. Easier for me to just walk away and leave before they see the tears or see how much their words bother me. If only they knew how wrong, how blind they are. But they don’t know. they don’t realize that the more “advice” they give, the more I just want to push them all away, to scream at them to stop and to just leave me be. One of the reasons I stopped talking to my friends is because of that, because I just couldn’t take anymore. The texts and having to hear how they saw him somewhere or whatever. I DONT CARE!! I mean, technically, I do care or it wouldn’t bother me so much, so maybe I should say I don’t want to know. I don’t understand. No one cared when we were together. I couldn’t say his name without getting crap for it. All I ever heard was how I was ruining my life and throwing away my reputation. That I was delusional if I thought he actually cared about anything other than sex. No one cared. No one believed me when I said I loved him. No one. It hurt so much. Even worse, everyone was glad when it was over. Glad. My life was in pieces, but they were happy? I’m sorry, but something about that isn’t right. They didn’t understand and it’s too late to make them. I wasn’t asking for permission. Why couldn’t they see that they were only making it harder, hurt more. When it ended, I just wanted to forget. To pretend that it never happened, just for a little while until I could handle and face it all. Every mention of him–it’s like a slap in the face. A constant reminder of how badly I screwed up. And yeah, it’s painful as hell.

No one knows the truth, not all of it. They know as much as I want them to know. They don’t know how much has changed. How I’ve changed. They think I’m fine, but I’m not. There, I said it. I’m not okay. It’s not that I’m unhappy, because I’m not. I’m just not happy. Does that make sense? I just…I’m numb. I can’t feel anything and at the same time, I feel too much. I don’t get it. I wish I knew how to fix things, to make things right, but I don’t. I want to tell everyone the truth, tell them how much it hurt–how much it still hurts–but I can’t tell them. I don’t want them to try and fix me. I don’t want their pity. And more than anything, I don’t want to hear that it’ll be okay because it’s NOT OK! It’s not. And what scares me the most is that I don’t know if it’ll ever be okay. He broke my heart when he walked away, but that’s not all he broke. Or all he took. It’s pathetic to say, but a part of me died when he left. It’s not his fault really. It’s just that, THAT girl–the girl I was then–she’s gone and she’s never coming back. All that’s left is the shell of her. Of me. And nothing can change that.

It’s been a year. A whole year. I never expected to still care. I figured it would hurt for a little while, but that it would eventually get better. But I can’t seem to let go. Or maybe I’m just afraid to. Afraid of forgetting everything. Of forgetting him. Forgetting that girl I used to be. But it’s already happening, no matter how much I try to stop it. His voice, his face–it’s all fading. It feels like I’m losing him all over again. It hurts just the same, maybe more. God knows I should be grateful for this, to forget, but I don’t feel grateful. If I let myself forget, if I regret him, then it’s like saying none of it happened. But it did happen. It was real. To me, if nothing else.

Just because I may not regret what happened, doesn’t mean I don’t think about what might have been had I done things differently. If I hadn’t gone with him that night. If I’d never met him at all. Where would I be today. Would I be happy? Would I not be such a broken mess like I am. I’ll never know. It’s bittersweet. It’s ok. I have to believe that it all happened for a reason, even if I don’t know what that reason is. Maybe it was fate. Maybe I had something to prove. If nothing else, I learned so much. I know what it’s like to love. And to lose. Maybe it was a game to him. Maybe everyone is right and he was just a jerk. Maybe. But I loved that jerk. I loved the lie. I think a part of me always will.. And people are always going to wonder and ask, to think what they want. If I had it to do all over again–would I? Honestly, I’m not sure. Part of me wants to say yes, the part that still cares and remembers the moments. But the other part of me wants to say no. the part of me that is still hurt and broken and feels used. I wish there was a simple answer, but there’s not. Life isn’t simple or easy. Neither is love. It’s complicated and messy and it turns your world upside-down sometimes. If it were easy, then I don’t think it’d be worth it.

I don’t hate him. I have more than enough reasons to, but I can’t. I can’t hate him or resent him for making a choice and doing what he felt was right. He chose his family and her. And as much as it hurts to know that the person you love loves someone else and as much as it hurts to admit it, he made the right choice. I couldn’t ask him to choose me, a girl who still doesn’t even know what she wants out of life. I can’t hate him for making me fall for him, or hate him because he didn’t feel the same. I can’t hate or blame him when I’m the one who broke the rules. I’m the one who took it further than I had any right to. It wasn’t supposed to go past that first night. But it did. And I don’t care what I should or shouldn’t do or feel–this was my choice. My life. I can’t apologize for it or defend how I feel or my decision to not regret what happened.

The only regret I have when it concerns him is that I never got the chance to say all the things I wanted to say. To tell him that I’m sorry. I’m pretty sure he hates me. I know it had to be this way, that making him hate me was the only way to set things right, to make him see that everything he wanted, he’d had all along. But it still hurts. God, it hurts so much. Will it always? I have to believe that it’ll get better, if nothing else. It’s all I can do. I have to believe there’s some greater purpose in all of this. There has to be. And even if I’m wrong, then at least I know I did the right thing in the end. I hope he’s happy. Truly. And me–I will be. Maybe not today or tomorrow or even months from now, but someday. Eventually…


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