I’ve had many, and have a few at the moment, but the one that is always special to me is my Bindi Zit. For anyone not familiar with the term, a bindi is a painted decoration worn between the eyebrows by women in South Asian countries like India. Although traditionally the mark has a religious significance, it is now worn more as a fashion, both by modern Hindus and by Madonna, Shakira, Gwen Stefani, and the like.
As you can probably guess by its name, my bindi zit also decorates that area directly between my eyebrows…more frequently than I’d like, though much less frequently in my mid-thirties than in the past.
According to Wikipedia, The area between the eyebrows (where the bindi is placed) is said to be the sixth chakra, agni, the seat of "concealed wisdom". According to followers of Tantrism, this chakra is the exit point for kundalini energy. The bindi is said to retain energy and strengthen concentration. and is also said to protect against demons or bad luck.
I can’t say I’ve ever noticed too many positive side effects from my bindi zit, but I do like to flatter myself that I have so much ‘concealed wisdom’ that the zit is a sign of it trying to come out.
Monday, February 26, 2007
Sunday, February 25, 2007
Oscars
James Doohan, who played Scotty on the original Star Trek series showed up on the obits reel. I hadn't heard, and it made me cry a little. Here's to you, James.
Wednesday, February 21, 2007
This Week's Topic
Is my choice, and I choose ZITS.
If you have a zit story you'd like to tell, feel free to send a link or write it in the comment box.
If you have a zit story you'd like to tell, feel free to send a link or write it in the comment box.
Tuesday, February 20, 2007
A Moment I Realized My Class--on a plane
In my writing class this semester, our teacher gives us a set of weekly prompts to respond to. A recent one was “The moment you realized your class.”
I believe she was referring realizing our place in the world in the larger sense, but it is also true that nothing makes you know your class (or lack thereof) like traveling in a plane. I think it’s also true that the longer your flight, the more you know your class.
A favorite story of Paul’s is how, arriving after a fourteen hour flight to Los Angeles from Melbourne, his plane sat on the runway for over an hour. just as he was feeling he could not bear to be on the plane for a minute more, the plane pulled up to the gate—ah the taste of freedom! Then, as he heard the plane doors open, the curtains separating the forward and the aft cabins were subtly closed. The first and business class passengers were allowed to disembark and board the commuter shuttle, while those in the main cabin were kept waiting. He usually ends his anecdote with, “Now I know what the Titanic passengers felt like on the lower decks with the ship was sinking and the metal gate came crashing down! It’s so unfair!”
The last time I made a trans-Pacific flight, I, too, was reminded of the Titanic. When we received our safety instructions for the flight:
In the unlikely event of a water landing, the “main cabin” was advised to use our seat cushions as flotation aids. This phraseology made my ears prick up. Is it just me, or is there a subtle difference between something that aids you in floating, and something that insures that you float? I know I’d be nervous if someone replaced the brakes in my car with something referred to as a stopping aid.
The flight attendant continued to talk us through our unlikely water scenario by, pointing out that the “forward cabins” were equipped with flotation devices. Interestingly these devices resmbled not so much seat cushions as LIFE JACKETS!
My imaginary scenario: As the Boeing 777 comes hurtling down into the ocean, every main cabin passenger makes it out of the exit door, down the inflatable slide, with our flotation aid / seat cushion hugged tightly to our chests, our arms wrapped through the straps as directed. After about 5 seconds in the icy Pacific, our limbs become too numb to flail, leaving us able to devote our full attention to the water as it steadily soaks through the tweed upholstery, then saturates every pore of the foam filling. As we watch, the seat cushions transform from flotation aids into heavy sodden masses that we don’t even have the strength to jettison as they pull us down beneath the waves.
Only minutes later, the rescue team arrives, snatching the most visible bodies from near death. Who are these most visible bodies? Why that would be the First and Business Class passengers, floating buoyantly on the water’ surface, wearing brightly colored life jackets. These are the people who will live to fly again—in First of Business Class of course. And who can fault the airlines for protecting their investments? The world is full of people trying to by $99 tickets from Seattle to Indianapolis…but those willing and able to spend ten times as much—those are assets worth keeping afloat!
I believe she was referring realizing our place in the world in the larger sense, but it is also true that nothing makes you know your class (or lack thereof) like traveling in a plane. I think it’s also true that the longer your flight, the more you know your class.
A favorite story of Paul’s is how, arriving after a fourteen hour flight to Los Angeles from Melbourne, his plane sat on the runway for over an hour. just as he was feeling he could not bear to be on the plane for a minute more, the plane pulled up to the gate—ah the taste of freedom! Then, as he heard the plane doors open, the curtains separating the forward and the aft cabins were subtly closed. The first and business class passengers were allowed to disembark and board the commuter shuttle, while those in the main cabin were kept waiting. He usually ends his anecdote with, “Now I know what the Titanic passengers felt like on the lower decks with the ship was sinking and the metal gate came crashing down! It’s so unfair!”
The last time I made a trans-Pacific flight, I, too, was reminded of the Titanic. When we received our safety instructions for the flight:
In the unlikely event of a water landing, the “main cabin” was advised to use our seat cushions as flotation aids. This phraseology made my ears prick up. Is it just me, or is there a subtle difference between something that aids you in floating, and something that insures that you float? I know I’d be nervous if someone replaced the brakes in my car with something referred to as a stopping aid.
The flight attendant continued to talk us through our unlikely water scenario by, pointing out that the “forward cabins” were equipped with flotation devices. Interestingly these devices resmbled not so much seat cushions as LIFE JACKETS!
My imaginary scenario: As the Boeing 777 comes hurtling down into the ocean, every main cabin passenger makes it out of the exit door, down the inflatable slide, with our flotation aid / seat cushion hugged tightly to our chests, our arms wrapped through the straps as directed. After about 5 seconds in the icy Pacific, our limbs become too numb to flail, leaving us able to devote our full attention to the water as it steadily soaks through the tweed upholstery, then saturates every pore of the foam filling. As we watch, the seat cushions transform from flotation aids into heavy sodden masses that we don’t even have the strength to jettison as they pull us down beneath the waves.
Only minutes later, the rescue team arrives, snatching the most visible bodies from near death. Who are these most visible bodies? Why that would be the First and Business Class passengers, floating buoyantly on the water’ surface, wearing brightly colored life jackets. These are the people who will live to fly again—in First of Business Class of course. And who can fault the airlines for protecting their investments? The world is full of people trying to by $99 tickets from Seattle to Indianapolis…but those willing and able to spend ten times as much—those are assets worth keeping afloat!
Wednesday, February 14, 2007
Planes #1: Oversold?
This weeks synchronized post, brought to you by Sandra , is "Planes." I have a few things I could say about planes, and will be doing so as the week progresses:
In some ways I am tempted to feel sorry for the major airlines due to the trials that have plagued them over the last few years. On the other hand, anyone who believes in karmic retribution could have told you something was coming around the bend—they have long seemed like greedy bastards.
For instance, how can an industry that brings in $3 billion a year OVERSELL a flight? Who hasn’t shown up for a flight on Thanksgiving eve to hear a voice over the intercom announcing that the flight has been OVERSOLD, and asking if anyone would like to volunteer to miss Turkey dinner with the parents for a $50 coupon toward their next flight? Ten minutes later, the same voice raises the bid. This repeats until an hour or so later enough people have jumped ship for $250 or less, that the plane can take off. Normally I would attribute such antics to a bad reality TV show which plans to show the average price at which most Americans will sell their family holiday down the river in favor of a Hawiian get-away in March; but from what I’ve read, this behavior on the part of the airlines really just works out better for them financially, and somehow, legally THEY CAN.
To a layperson like myself, such a thing seems grossly unjust. How can you sell tickets you know don’t exist? And why? There are 184 seats on the plane. Sell 184 tickets. Is this is difficult? I wonder if they should hire Ticketmaster. I don’t recall ever showing up an R.E.M. concert to be told that the stadium was oversold!
In some ways I am tempted to feel sorry for the major airlines due to the trials that have plagued them over the last few years. On the other hand, anyone who believes in karmic retribution could have told you something was coming around the bend—they have long seemed like greedy bastards.
For instance, how can an industry that brings in $3 billion a year OVERSELL a flight? Who hasn’t shown up for a flight on Thanksgiving eve to hear a voice over the intercom announcing that the flight has been OVERSOLD, and asking if anyone would like to volunteer to miss Turkey dinner with the parents for a $50 coupon toward their next flight? Ten minutes later, the same voice raises the bid. This repeats until an hour or so later enough people have jumped ship for $250 or less, that the plane can take off. Normally I would attribute such antics to a bad reality TV show which plans to show the average price at which most Americans will sell their family holiday down the river in favor of a Hawiian get-away in March; but from what I’ve read, this behavior on the part of the airlines really just works out better for them financially, and somehow, legally THEY CAN.
To a layperson like myself, such a thing seems grossly unjust. How can you sell tickets you know don’t exist? And why? There are 184 seats on the plane. Sell 184 tickets. Is this is difficult? I wonder if they should hire Ticketmaster. I don’t recall ever showing up an R.E.M. concert to be told that the stadium was oversold!
Sunday, February 11, 2007
On Friday Afternoon...
(or ...
Am I Under Seige by Some Aliens Who Plan to Pummel Me with Paperwork in order to Activate My Secret Paper-Related Self Destruct Sequence that I Don’t Even Know About but am Beginning to Suspect I Might Have?)
On Friday afternoon, I ran to school to hang up some flyers for the reading series. Not having an hour to search for parking, I pulled into the drive, turned on my blinkers, and ran into the building. By my calculations, it was thirty seconds later that some one (Alien?) descended from nowhere (Mars?) and placed the piece of paper on my windshield. It was not a disposable piece of paper. It was a piece of paper requiring me to fill out another piece of paper, and threatening, should I resist, to hunt down and immobilize my vehicle (blameless in this, I might point out, vehicles lacking free will), and hold it ransom until I filed many more pieces of paper.
On Friday afternoon, I took my vehicle (and my ticket) to visit the office supply store to purchase a roll of special paper for my fax. (If your life is going well, in the paperwork department at least, you can exist without a fax. You can email, or make a phone call, and receive your bills in some range of a week or two after they are sent with no worries. However, if you have legal woes, or any agency has screwed up your identity, you also need a fax. I came home with my roll of fax paper (that didn’t fit) to find:
The third letter this week from a medical provider, wanting extra money for a past services, because our health insurance company, after taking our payments and issuing cards for the past 16 months, is now informing our providers that our coverage expired in June of 2005. No one at our employer’s office, the COBRA office or the Insurance company knows why this is happening.
An email from my tenant noting that as the contractors were “controlling” the water damage in the unit, they blew a fuse, and she now, along with holes in the walls, dissected plumbing, pulled up tile, and mutilated carpet, has no electricity in half the apartment, what should she do?
A phone message from the Insurance adjuster, explaining how my liability insurance won’t cover me for the damage to the unit below, unless they could prove I had been neglectful, or willfully caused the damage. Because I keep the unit in repair, the toilet flooding was “an accident” they will not pay. Had I hit a pipe with an axe and caused a flood, apparently I would be covered. In any case, nothing can be definitively determined until some papers are made available: copies of my policy, copies of the homeowners association policies, copies of estimates and invoices to date, and the results from the asbestos testing (positive). We are, apparently, waiting on these papers.
Taxes. Coming right around the corner.
My desk. Piled so high I have to think of somewhere else to go now.
Am I Under Seige by Some Aliens Who Plan to Pummel Me with Paperwork in order to Activate My Secret Paper-Related Self Destruct Sequence that I Don’t Even Know About but am Beginning to Suspect I Might Have?)
On Friday afternoon, I ran to school to hang up some flyers for the reading series. Not having an hour to search for parking, I pulled into the drive, turned on my blinkers, and ran into the building. By my calculations, it was thirty seconds later that some one (Alien?) descended from nowhere (Mars?) and placed the piece of paper on my windshield. It was not a disposable piece of paper. It was a piece of paper requiring me to fill out another piece of paper, and threatening, should I resist, to hunt down and immobilize my vehicle (blameless in this, I might point out, vehicles lacking free will), and hold it ransom until I filed many more pieces of paper.
On Friday afternoon, I took my vehicle (and my ticket) to visit the office supply store to purchase a roll of special paper for my fax. (If your life is going well, in the paperwork department at least, you can exist without a fax. You can email, or make a phone call, and receive your bills in some range of a week or two after they are sent with no worries. However, if you have legal woes, or any agency has screwed up your identity, you also need a fax. I came home with my roll of fax paper (that didn’t fit) to find:
The third letter this week from a medical provider, wanting extra money for a past services, because our health insurance company, after taking our payments and issuing cards for the past 16 months, is now informing our providers that our coverage expired in June of 2005. No one at our employer’s office, the COBRA office or the Insurance company knows why this is happening.
An email from my tenant noting that as the contractors were “controlling” the water damage in the unit, they blew a fuse, and she now, along with holes in the walls, dissected plumbing, pulled up tile, and mutilated carpet, has no electricity in half the apartment, what should she do?
A phone message from the Insurance adjuster, explaining how my liability insurance won’t cover me for the damage to the unit below, unless they could prove I had been neglectful, or willfully caused the damage. Because I keep the unit in repair, the toilet flooding was “an accident” they will not pay. Had I hit a pipe with an axe and caused a flood, apparently I would be covered. In any case, nothing can be definitively determined until some papers are made available: copies of my policy, copies of the homeowners association policies, copies of estimates and invoices to date, and the results from the asbestos testing (positive). We are, apparently, waiting on these papers.
Taxes. Coming right around the corner.
My desk. Piled so high I have to think of somewhere else to go now.
Thursday, February 08, 2007
Dead Pets...sort of
Our synchronized blog subject for the week, proposed by Susie, is "dead pets." I’ve only had one pet in my life that died. This was the German Shepard I had a child. His name was Bud, and he was very sweet. He died while I was away at college, and my sister called to tell me. I was sad, but not as sad as I would have liked to be. With a few exceptions, death is kind of like that for me.
I am, on the other hand, for some reason capable of forming very fierce attachments to inanimate objects, (ask Paul about my bunny). As a child I had very warm feelings toward my stuffed and/or soft objects. I had many, but the inner circle was as follows: A dog with a name tag that said Henry; an alligator; an item that looked like a sun—a stuffed circle with orange felt triangles about it’s radius and a smiling face, but which contained a wind-up music box that played Twinkle Twinkle Little Star, so was more likely a star; a blue bean-filled mouse from the hospital gift shop where I had my adnoids taken out when I was six; an embroidered quilt; and a small pillow, which I called, “the soft pillow.” The soft pillow was the first to go. It’s silky exterior had become more fray than cloth, it was basically cotton batting held together by threads in a team effort. Still, each night I searched for it among the blankets, and placed at the head of the bed, underneath the mouse. Sometimes I couldn’t find it in the dark, and would have to wait until the next morning to find it tucked between the bed-frame and the mattress. Sometimes by morning I would be in a hurry and forget to look.
One week, several nights passed in this way, until one night, worried, I crept to the stairs in my pajamas and called down to my mom, asking if she had seen it. There was a pause.
“I think it’s in the laundry. I’ll look for it tomorrow.”
I went to bed happy in the thought that the next day I would be reunited with the soft pillow.
However, it was not to be. The next day, my mom had to ‘fess up and admit what she had avoided telling me the night before: She had thrown away my soft pillow.
“I thought you had forgotten about it,” she said.
I was devastated. I went up to my room and sobbed, and had very little to say to my mother for days. In retrospect, I think she must have felt terrible. She has refused to throw away anything since. Twenty years after leaving my parent’s home, when I visit, she still asks my permission before throwing or giving away items in the closet of my room.
But in the moment, I had no sympathy for her, which is probably why after a couple of days my father came up to talk to me and told me this story:
“You know, there was a kid who had a pet turtle named Max. When the turtle died he was crying and crying and wouldn’t stop until his father said, ‘Why don’t we have a funeral for Max?’
“They painted a shoe-box for the coffin, and invited some neighborhood kids to the service. The boy got to give a speech about Max and after they buried him, the boys mother gave everyone some ice-cream.
"When a week or so had gone by, the boy’s father took him to the pet store to get a new turtle. On the way home the boy asked, ‘Can we kill this one too, and have another funeral?’”
I didn’t then, and don’t now know what the point of this story was supposed to be, but I do think it was intended to cheer me up.
Over the years, the pain of losing the soft pillow has subsided, I have quit praying that it and I, along with my small committee of stuffed animals, will find each other in heaven after I die. Conversely, however, my feelings of nostalgia have increased for certain things I never saw…the conference my parents must have had, my mom, younger than I am now, remorseful, remaining in the kitchen, and my dad heading up the stairs to face an angry and unforgiving little girl, armed only with a tenderness I could not yet appreciate, and some fucked-up story about a turtle.
I am, on the other hand, for some reason capable of forming very fierce attachments to inanimate objects, (ask Paul about my bunny). As a child I had very warm feelings toward my stuffed and/or soft objects. I had many, but the inner circle was as follows: A dog with a name tag that said Henry; an alligator; an item that looked like a sun—a stuffed circle with orange felt triangles about it’s radius and a smiling face, but which contained a wind-up music box that played Twinkle Twinkle Little Star, so was more likely a star; a blue bean-filled mouse from the hospital gift shop where I had my adnoids taken out when I was six; an embroidered quilt; and a small pillow, which I called, “the soft pillow.” The soft pillow was the first to go. It’s silky exterior had become more fray than cloth, it was basically cotton batting held together by threads in a team effort. Still, each night I searched for it among the blankets, and placed at the head of the bed, underneath the mouse. Sometimes I couldn’t find it in the dark, and would have to wait until the next morning to find it tucked between the bed-frame and the mattress. Sometimes by morning I would be in a hurry and forget to look.
One week, several nights passed in this way, until one night, worried, I crept to the stairs in my pajamas and called down to my mom, asking if she had seen it. There was a pause.
“I think it’s in the laundry. I’ll look for it tomorrow.”
I went to bed happy in the thought that the next day I would be reunited with the soft pillow.
However, it was not to be. The next day, my mom had to ‘fess up and admit what she had avoided telling me the night before: She had thrown away my soft pillow.
“I thought you had forgotten about it,” she said.
I was devastated. I went up to my room and sobbed, and had very little to say to my mother for days. In retrospect, I think she must have felt terrible. She has refused to throw away anything since. Twenty years after leaving my parent’s home, when I visit, she still asks my permission before throwing or giving away items in the closet of my room.
But in the moment, I had no sympathy for her, which is probably why after a couple of days my father came up to talk to me and told me this story:
“You know, there was a kid who had a pet turtle named Max. When the turtle died he was crying and crying and wouldn’t stop until his father said, ‘Why don’t we have a funeral for Max?’
“They painted a shoe-box for the coffin, and invited some neighborhood kids to the service. The boy got to give a speech about Max and after they buried him, the boys mother gave everyone some ice-cream.
"When a week or so had gone by, the boy’s father took him to the pet store to get a new turtle. On the way home the boy asked, ‘Can we kill this one too, and have another funeral?’”
I didn’t then, and don’t now know what the point of this story was supposed to be, but I do think it was intended to cheer me up.
Over the years, the pain of losing the soft pillow has subsided, I have quit praying that it and I, along with my small committee of stuffed animals, will find each other in heaven after I die. Conversely, however, my feelings of nostalgia have increased for certain things I never saw…the conference my parents must have had, my mom, younger than I am now, remorseful, remaining in the kitchen, and my dad heading up the stairs to face an angry and unforgiving little girl, armed only with a tenderness I could not yet appreciate, and some fucked-up story about a turtle.
Wednesday, February 07, 2007
I Want to Hit Something…
So last semester, I took a Jazz class here at FSU. In a manner that is too convoluted to go into, I rubbed the instructor the wrong way just before the end of the semester. We exchanged some words via email, but were always very civil during class. I actually went out of my way to go above and beyond. When I received my grade, she had given me an A-, having deducted points based on our interaction outside of class. While probably not that uncommon, it is certainly unethical. How do I know she did it? Well, I asked her (again via e-mail) and she told me so! In writing!
She refused to discuss changing the grade, so I was forced to go through the grading appeals process, which is heavily weighted against the student who is appealing. Step 1, is documenting your complaint, submitting all evidence, including all of your attempts to reconcile the issue with the instructor, within 15 days. (Note, they told me this is what I had to do THREE days before the deadline.)
Today I had my “hearing.” I walked in to find three students. These students, I see on the guidelines, are a group of students from the same department, who have “no conflict of interest.” Question: In a department that is constantly holding auditions, where some students have choreography projects that use other students, where students are obviously in classes together all the time in the kind of intensive and insular program where politics must ensue, how can you possible have “No conflict of interest?”
It took them less than a day to write letting me know that they had found no problems with my teacher’s grading policy, and that they would not pass my appeal on to any faculty or advising body who might actually know something about pedagogical ethics.
She refused to discuss changing the grade, so I was forced to go through the grading appeals process, which is heavily weighted against the student who is appealing. Step 1, is documenting your complaint, submitting all evidence, including all of your attempts to reconcile the issue with the instructor, within 15 days. (Note, they told me this is what I had to do THREE days before the deadline.)
Today I had my “hearing.” I walked in to find three students. These students, I see on the guidelines, are a group of students from the same department, who have “no conflict of interest.” Question: In a department that is constantly holding auditions, where some students have choreography projects that use other students, where students are obviously in classes together all the time in the kind of intensive and insular program where politics must ensue, how can you possible have “No conflict of interest?”
It took them less than a day to write letting me know that they had found no problems with my teacher’s grading policy, and that they would not pass my appeal on to any faculty or advising body who might actually know something about pedagogical ethics.
Did We Rock the Vote?
We won't know for one more week. Voting ended at 11:59 last night, and the winner will be announced on the 13th February, so not much to do now but cross fingers. Oh, and you can listen to Paul and two of his competitors on the radio, here.
Search word (if needed), "coca".
Search word (if needed), "coca".
Friday, February 02, 2007
More Things A Fear
More Things I Fear
1) I fear sleep deprivation, but I also fear underachieving in my obligations…I experience both, and usually compromise by staying up long enough to get just enough work done, and just enough sleep so that I can survive for a week before having a huge crash-out every ten days or so.
2) I fear being late…which is not unrealistic, but is often counter-balanced by my fear of “missing something,” or being rude in the midst of whatever obligation is previous to the punctual transgression. It's pretty much a rock and a hard place scenario.
3) I fear that I will never be a “real” writer. Valid, but not yet severe enough to make me overcome my sense that I need to do a lot of things first before writing and submitting work each day.
4) I fear I will get cancer again. Also very valid, but becoming temporally far away in a way that might be a little dangerous…possibly a more detailed post on this later.
5) I fear getting fat. Great enough to spur the purchase (and use) of elliptical, but not great enough to resist the temptation of cheese fries at Miller’s.
6) I fear getting old…it’s happening anyway…someday the fear might get so acute it provokes a face lift.
7) I fear being poor. Valid. And getting closer. I don't want to talk about it.
8) I fear feeling guilty about how we’ve spent our money to get poor. I don't want to talk about that either.
9) I fear feeling guilty about anything. My actions are often dictated by the amount of guilt I fear might be involved.
10) I fear pain. I avoid it when possible, unless a greater fear trumps it.
11) I’ve never had a great fear of snakes, even when we lived in Australia, land of many poisonous snakes, but then my friend was bitten recently, and she said it DID hurt quite a lot, that it felt like being stapled. So now I’m a little afraid of snakes.
1) I fear sleep deprivation, but I also fear underachieving in my obligations…I experience both, and usually compromise by staying up long enough to get just enough work done, and just enough sleep so that I can survive for a week before having a huge crash-out every ten days or so.
2) I fear being late…which is not unrealistic, but is often counter-balanced by my fear of “missing something,” or being rude in the midst of whatever obligation is previous to the punctual transgression. It's pretty much a rock and a hard place scenario.
3) I fear that I will never be a “real” writer. Valid, but not yet severe enough to make me overcome my sense that I need to do a lot of things first before writing and submitting work each day.
4) I fear I will get cancer again. Also very valid, but becoming temporally far away in a way that might be a little dangerous…possibly a more detailed post on this later.
5) I fear getting fat. Great enough to spur the purchase (and use) of elliptical, but not great enough to resist the temptation of cheese fries at Miller’s.
6) I fear getting old…it’s happening anyway…someday the fear might get so acute it provokes a face lift.
7) I fear being poor. Valid. And getting closer. I don't want to talk about it.
8) I fear feeling guilty about how we’ve spent our money to get poor. I don't want to talk about that either.
9) I fear feeling guilty about anything. My actions are often dictated by the amount of guilt I fear might be involved.
10) I fear pain. I avoid it when possible, unless a greater fear trumps it.
11) I’ve never had a great fear of snakes, even when we lived in Australia, land of many poisonous snakes, but then my friend was bitten recently, and she said it DID hurt quite a lot, that it felt like being stapled. So now I’m a little afraid of snakes.
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