Monday, June 01, 2009
Sunday, November 09, 2008
Got jiggy at a Halloween funeral.
It wasn’t so much of the gettin’ jiggy, really, as a neurological [issue] day. I managed fine, though all the shakiness made my legs extremely sore when the jiggy settled down. So ibuprofen happened and then sleep and then a long car drive. And another, longer, car drive after that. (Hopefully the ibuprofen will continue to relieve post-jiggy soreness like it did at the time.) And then I left The South by heading southerly. And then there was much less stress. And then the chances of my gettin’ jiggy or using the word “jiggy” should should SHOULD have been minimized. Let’s minimize jigginess, m-kay? I’ll draw a nice little parabola and we’ll use basic calculus to find the minimum jigginess. And somewhere in quadrants I, II, III or IV lies a line that represents usage of the word “jiggy” by my own lips. And somewhere this line intersects the parabola. And somewhere there is a low occurrence of jigginess that corresponds with low usage of “jiggy”. Let’s find that intersection and aim for it. (30 points.)
Tuesday, September 02, 2008
An Infamous Army, An Infamous Disappointment
I like fiction. I like history. I like historical fiction.
I do not like An Infamous Army by Georgette Heyer.
When discovering this book on Mini Book Expo, I was intrigued. Historical fiction fascinates me. It's educational but usually brings a personal light to things, and that subjective view reveals nuances, ambiguities, emotions that simply aren't often found in a purely historical tome. Usually. Usually that's how it works. Reading praise, unpaid blurbs, for Heyer's book, I thought I might be on to a new source of good historical fiction. And a 2007 reprint (by Sourcebooks) of a book originally published in 1937 should indicate some merit to the book, no?
No.
Heyer's book fails deliciously, astoundingly, and (oh ho ho) infamously.
We open with a small social gathering in which all characters and players are gossiped about in order to be introduced. Is that a moment of wit when it is said that tying a cravat is an inborn skill, not something everyone can master? Is it a slight? Is it a combination of the two? Unfortunately, the focus on clothing is paralyzingly shallow. That would be where the realism fleets in for a moment or so. But the contrived introduction of characters through gossip is painfully amateur. No one has a real opinion for themselves, but they spit out insipid background details that are too bland to even set the scene. And the stilted and stifling conversation does nothing to lure me in; I am demanding, and if such language is used, there ought to be a reason, whether based in history or in mockery of history or in mockery of historical writers. But I don't think that's the case in An Infamous Army. I suspect that blind romanticism may be at play, and here Heyer would just be manipulating the Battle of Waterloo into something more easily understood by herself: fanciful language with little basis in reality, pretty dresses, and the notion that all this imagined romanticism has left the world by the time she gets around to writing the book.
Oh, yes, the Battle of Waterloo is in here somewhere. In fact, once the characters are properly introduced through unnaturally crafted dialogue, they seem to fade out. In comes a history lesson. The distinct separation between sections of fiction and history, in use of language but no visual division on the page, creates a laughable effect. I can't fault Heyer for her historical research, and when she writes in the Author's Note that she avoided studying French historical records—presumably because that might give her non-French characters an inappropriate omniscience—I do find myself offering her great respect.
But dear lord, I think the respect ends there. This is bad fiction alternating with history lessons. The fiction leaves headaches from constant cringing at frivolity and hardly makes use of real history. As I've said, I'm demanding. In historical fiction, I expect history and fiction to be so entwined that I am inspired to do research so as to determine what is true and what is not. Heyer's book leaves me completely apathetic.
To be fair, a book published shortly after the Great Depression may have been meant for mere entertainment and escapism; then, if ever, I'm sure it was needed. If anyone could have afforded it. I suppose I could be generous and examine the book within the context of that time as a desperate attempt to get away from life, but the absence of real hardship in this writing is rather inexplicable. We have here a book around a battlefield, a book also written during genuinely difficult times, and yet there's no real sense of urgency or sacrifice or injustice of living. Dry history combined with shallow fiction. It's escapism at its best, but literature of the weakest sort. Yet in order to be escapism for people like myself, a book needs to be slightly relatable. History presented as archaic stories does nothing for me. Fiction full of shallow obsessions that aren't social commentary does nothing for me. It's not escapism for me, it's not reality for me, it's not literature, and it only passingly involves history.
And there's the crux of it all: this book wasn't written for me. In the Author's Note, Heyer says this book was an ambition of hers. Of hers alone. Something to do for herself. Suddenly, we have a woman in the 1930s who disregards all that's going on around her to fulfill her own damn desire. And suddenly, I have more respect for Heyer the woman than Heyer the author. Her book is not a success in literature, but a success for herself. I suppose that's something.
Note: It has been suggested that I give this book five out of five stars if it contains mention of time-travelling cats from the future. Unfortunately, Heyer once again falls short. I withhold a star rating.
I do not like An Infamous Army by Georgette Heyer.
When discovering this book on Mini Book Expo, I was intrigued. Historical fiction fascinates me. It's educational but usually brings a personal light to things, and that subjective view reveals nuances, ambiguities, emotions that simply aren't often found in a purely historical tome. Usually. Usually that's how it works. Reading praise, unpaid blurbs, for Heyer's book, I thought I might be on to a new source of good historical fiction. And a 2007 reprint (by Sourcebooks) of a book originally published in 1937 should indicate some merit to the book, no?
No.
Heyer's book fails deliciously, astoundingly, and (oh ho ho) infamously.
We open with a small social gathering in which all characters and players are gossiped about in order to be introduced. Is that a moment of wit when it is said that tying a cravat is an inborn skill, not something everyone can master? Is it a slight? Is it a combination of the two? Unfortunately, the focus on clothing is paralyzingly shallow. That would be where the realism fleets in for a moment or so. But the contrived introduction of characters through gossip is painfully amateur. No one has a real opinion for themselves, but they spit out insipid background details that are too bland to even set the scene. And the stilted and stifling conversation does nothing to lure me in; I am demanding, and if such language is used, there ought to be a reason, whether based in history or in mockery of history or in mockery of historical writers. But I don't think that's the case in An Infamous Army. I suspect that blind romanticism may be at play, and here Heyer would just be manipulating the Battle of Waterloo into something more easily understood by herself: fanciful language with little basis in reality, pretty dresses, and the notion that all this imagined romanticism has left the world by the time she gets around to writing the book.
Oh, yes, the Battle of Waterloo is in here somewhere. In fact, once the characters are properly introduced through unnaturally crafted dialogue, they seem to fade out. In comes a history lesson. The distinct separation between sections of fiction and history, in use of language but no visual division on the page, creates a laughable effect. I can't fault Heyer for her historical research, and when she writes in the Author's Note that she avoided studying French historical records—presumably because that might give her non-French characters an inappropriate omniscience—I do find myself offering her great respect.
But dear lord, I think the respect ends there. This is bad fiction alternating with history lessons. The fiction leaves headaches from constant cringing at frivolity and hardly makes use of real history. As I've said, I'm demanding. In historical fiction, I expect history and fiction to be so entwined that I am inspired to do research so as to determine what is true and what is not. Heyer's book leaves me completely apathetic.
To be fair, a book published shortly after the Great Depression may have been meant for mere entertainment and escapism; then, if ever, I'm sure it was needed. If anyone could have afforded it. I suppose I could be generous and examine the book within the context of that time as a desperate attempt to get away from life, but the absence of real hardship in this writing is rather inexplicable. We have here a book around a battlefield, a book also written during genuinely difficult times, and yet there's no real sense of urgency or sacrifice or injustice of living. Dry history combined with shallow fiction. It's escapism at its best, but literature of the weakest sort. Yet in order to be escapism for people like myself, a book needs to be slightly relatable. History presented as archaic stories does nothing for me. Fiction full of shallow obsessions that aren't social commentary does nothing for me. It's not escapism for me, it's not reality for me, it's not literature, and it only passingly involves history.
And there's the crux of it all: this book wasn't written for me. In the Author's Note, Heyer says this book was an ambition of hers. Of hers alone. Something to do for herself. Suddenly, we have a woman in the 1930s who disregards all that's going on around her to fulfill her own damn desire. And suddenly, I have more respect for Heyer the woman than Heyer the author. Her book is not a success in literature, but a success for herself. I suppose that's something.
Note: It has been suggested that I give this book five out of five stars if it contains mention of time-travelling cats from the future. Unfortunately, Heyer once again falls short. I withhold a star rating.
Monday, November 05, 2007
Update?
MRI: normal.
Walking: happening.
Ambulance bill: ouch.
Anterograde amnesia: fading.
Sunlight: still painful.
Hypersensitivity: less Parkonsonian.
Sleep medications: NONE.
Walking: happening.
Ambulance bill: ouch.
Anterograde amnesia: fading.
Sunlight: still painful.
Hypersensitivity: less Parkonsonian.
Sleep medications: NONE.
Monday, October 29, 2007
Friday, August 17, 2007
Reviews
1. Mouserugs. They're fancy little rugs with purty designs. I'm partial to the Oriental designs, myself, but there are many to choose from. They have a texture that is very strokeable. Really. Plus, they're easy to clean. And they have grippy bottoms. And they are mousepads. Even better, they're slightly narrower than your average mousepad, which means they fit easier on small keyboard trays. Durable and beautiful with a smooth surface for excellent mousegliding action. Rating: 10/10 optical mice.
2. Schick Quattro for Women. If you gots to shave, this is sharp and soft at the same time. Don't go disposable. Easy-to-change blades. Conditioning strips. Seemingly unable to nick skin. Yet I keep knocking the blade piece off. It's like a safety release: if you try too hard, it resists. Rating: 9/10 gastrocnemii.
3. Short hair. Showering becomes quick and fun! Hair dries in two shakes of a lamb tail! Hair looks like a lamb's tail! New styles every day! Downsides: Real spiking glue is hard to find. Hair grows, so short hair must be cut to be maintained. Rating: 9/10 fuzzy lamb's tails.
4. Breathing. Also fun! I recommend the blue inhaler, the purple inhaler with the counter, an air purifier, and allergy medication in order to maximize your full breathing potential. If you don't breathe, you're missing out. Rating: 10/10 Izzy mrehs.
5. Driving. Real ultimate power! A safe, natural high. Warning: can be extremely dangerous, as even stupid people are allowed to drive, and everyone—the smarts and the stupids alike—can quickly become intoxicated on driving. Remember hubris. Rating: 8/10 steering wheels.
6. Health care professionals who care. Example: A physiotherapist is concerned about her patient's lack of progress on a Monday. Concerned enough to immediately call said patient's doctor, who then calls the patient to make an appointment for the next day, Tuesday. On Tuesday, doctor is likewise concerned enough to contact neurologist, and said neurologist arranges an appointment to see the patient the next day, Wednesday. That's quick! Rating: 9/10 stethoscopes.
7. Mysterious symptoms. I can walk today, but I couldn't yesterday? My pupils are the size of softballs? I can't type at three in the afternoon? Huh? Rating: 1/10 dilated pupils, only because the situation is intriguing.
2. Schick Quattro for Women. If you gots to shave, this is sharp and soft at the same time. Don't go disposable. Easy-to-change blades. Conditioning strips. Seemingly unable to nick skin. Yet I keep knocking the blade piece off. It's like a safety release: if you try too hard, it resists. Rating: 9/10 gastrocnemii.
3. Short hair. Showering becomes quick and fun! Hair dries in two shakes of a lamb tail! Hair looks like a lamb's tail! New styles every day! Downsides: Real spiking glue is hard to find. Hair grows, so short hair must be cut to be maintained. Rating: 9/10 fuzzy lamb's tails.
4. Breathing. Also fun! I recommend the blue inhaler, the purple inhaler with the counter, an air purifier, and allergy medication in order to maximize your full breathing potential. If you don't breathe, you're missing out. Rating: 10/10 Izzy mrehs.
5. Driving. Real ultimate power! A safe, natural high. Warning: can be extremely dangerous, as even stupid people are allowed to drive, and everyone—the smarts and the stupids alike—can quickly become intoxicated on driving. Remember hubris. Rating: 8/10 steering wheels.
6. Health care professionals who care. Example: A physiotherapist is concerned about her patient's lack of progress on a Monday. Concerned enough to immediately call said patient's doctor, who then calls the patient to make an appointment for the next day, Tuesday. On Tuesday, doctor is likewise concerned enough to contact neurologist, and said neurologist arranges an appointment to see the patient the next day, Wednesday. That's quick! Rating: 9/10 stethoscopes.
7. Mysterious symptoms. I can walk today, but I couldn't yesterday? My pupils are the size of softballs? I can't type at three in the afternoon? Huh? Rating: 1/10 dilated pupils, only because the situation is intriguing.
8. Anbesol and orthodontic wax. You are my best friends. I don't mind special-ordering you when every store in the city has run out. You will save me. Rating: 12/10 numbed lips. A winner is you!
Thursday, July 26, 2007
Wednesday, July 25, 2007
If, You
When the doctor tells you that you might not be able to walk in a year, that you might lose speech ability within two years, that in six months you might not be able to use your hands, you will say, "No." You may scream it. You may say it as a side effect of confusion. You may be determined to survive It. But that's not denial. You say "no" because you have a passion to live, or at least a passion to not die. Not yet. And you can't run down that list of things you want to do before you die. There's no list. You want to keep enjoying what you do. And if there were some vague list, you don't want to rush through everything on it. Nothing comes after that. And what point is there in rushing through life simply because you know you're going to die? And when you get to that list, anyway, and try to figure out what to do first, you only have enough energy to prioritize things according to how you would do them that day. And then you sleep. And you live through your dreams, because thankfully you were smart enough to not have kids whom you'd force to live out your own dreams. And when you wake up, some of your priorities have changed. Some new ideas will be added, too. So every day, you could re-sort this list. Prioritize for each day. And maybe that will be enough, but I doubt it. Making the list is administrative work. It provides the framework, but maybe "resting in an expensive hammock in the fall while reading Edward Abbey" isn't on your list, and that's all you want to do today. Screw the list, then. If you have the energy to read, go for it. If you want to sleep, why not? Sleeping is a glorious part of life. Eventually you'll look at the day's list and think to yourself, "What really seriously truly needs to get done today?" Usually the answer is nothing. Or what needed to get done was exactly what got done. You had a good nap. You did a little reading, and it was good, but you don't need to reflect and analyze it. Enjoy it and explore it, or enjoy it and let it go.
When a doctor tells you that you are going to lose all mobility and muscle control, perhaps due to issues with the myelin of your neurons or perhaps due to strange antibodies that attack any bit of health in any system of your body, when that doctor says you might die from It or Its symptoms, you can say, "No, actually, I don't feel like having that. I don't want it." Say it and let yourself mourn that way. You are mourning comfort. You will have to find a new comfort, and that comfort may be mistaken as denial at first. But you must mourn and process information.
And then, then you must plan a timeline. However, this is more like a Choose Your Own Adventure book than a timeline. Or, you could make it a flow chart. "If I lose my sight, hearing, ability to sing and ability to play guitar, give my instruments to J. If I only lose my sight, hearing, and ability to sing, let me keep my guitar so I can learn how to play anew."
There's an old ad campaign with posters of smiling people. And all these people have depression. The point is, you can't see it from the outside. Somehow, this idea was seen as a breakthrough. What is the face of emotional abuse? What is the face of an unseen physical disability? What are the legs of a lazy person, and how are they different from the legs that are too old to move? Or the legs that no longer receive clear messages from the brain?
You are invisible, except for your limp.
When a doctor tells you that you are going to lose all mobility and muscle control, perhaps due to issues with the myelin of your neurons or perhaps due to strange antibodies that attack any bit of health in any system of your body, when that doctor says you might die from It or Its symptoms, you can say, "No, actually, I don't feel like having that. I don't want it." Say it and let yourself mourn that way. You are mourning comfort. You will have to find a new comfort, and that comfort may be mistaken as denial at first. But you must mourn and process information.
And then, then you must plan a timeline. However, this is more like a Choose Your Own Adventure book than a timeline. Or, you could make it a flow chart. "If I lose my sight, hearing, ability to sing and ability to play guitar, give my instruments to J. If I only lose my sight, hearing, and ability to sing, let me keep my guitar so I can learn how to play anew."
There's an old ad campaign with posters of smiling people. And all these people have depression. The point is, you can't see it from the outside. Somehow, this idea was seen as a breakthrough. What is the face of emotional abuse? What is the face of an unseen physical disability? What are the legs of a lazy person, and how are they different from the legs that are too old to move? Or the legs that no longer receive clear messages from the brain?
Monday, July 23, 2007
Frantic Immediate Emergency Situation
I seem to have run out of Post-It notes, and I don't know what to do! It is two in the morning, and Staples is closed. I don't know what to do. I don't know how to survive. I don't know what to do. Why is there no 24-hour emergency Post-It delivery service? I don't know what to do.
Saturday, July 21, 2007
Friday, July 20, 2007
Birthing Day Spam
The best subject line for email I got on my birthday was "anti growing old supplement". That was pretty awesome. Even better than the asthma attacks I've been getting.
I found out this week that my 10-year high school reunion is being planned. I'm amused and disgusted. It's an opportunity to get together with a bunch of people I never liked to watch them drink and dance. Knowing me, I'd sneak off to some quiet corner with a book. Yes, even now. And if a few folks joined me, that would be okay. You can join me. Just don't be drunk. We're not in high school anymore. In other words, I'm not going to pretend that you can live your own life and I'm cool with that. Because I'm not cool with that. I'm going to judge. Yes, I'm going to judge. In high school you might have been able to get away with being stupid, but I'm not going to deal with it now. Therefore, I will not pay $30 (or more) to have a meaningless encounter with mostly non-friends in a drinking and dancing capacity. Did I go to school dances back then? Absolutely not. And some things don't change. It just sounds painful and pretentious and boring and shallow.
I would be slightly amused, however, to go to my high school reunion carrying an inhaler and sporting braces, two things that were not part of my high school career but are so [stereo]typical of adolescence that I have to giggle.
For my birthday, I got a new inhaler. I haven't taken it out of the box yet. I hope it matches my red inhaler and my blue inhaler.
I found out this week that my 10-year high school reunion is being planned. I'm amused and disgusted. It's an opportunity to get together with a bunch of people I never liked to watch them drink and dance. Knowing me, I'd sneak off to some quiet corner with a book. Yes, even now. And if a few folks joined me, that would be okay. You can join me. Just don't be drunk. We're not in high school anymore. In other words, I'm not going to pretend that you can live your own life and I'm cool with that. Because I'm not cool with that. I'm going to judge. Yes, I'm going to judge. In high school you might have been able to get away with being stupid, but I'm not going to deal with it now. Therefore, I will not pay $30 (or more) to have a meaningless encounter with mostly non-friends in a drinking and dancing capacity. Did I go to school dances back then? Absolutely not. And some things don't change. It just sounds painful and pretentious and boring and shallow.
I would be slightly amused, however, to go to my high school reunion carrying an inhaler and sporting braces, two things that were not part of my high school career but are so [stereo]typical of adolescence that I have to giggle.
For my birthday, I got a new inhaler. I haven't taken it out of the box yet. I hope it matches my red inhaler and my blue inhaler.
Thursday, July 05, 2007
Ear-lye in the morrrnins
When you type "think night" instead of "good night" in an IM, you need sleep. When you try to say "Izzy whiskers" and say "isky whizzers" despite repeated efforts to correct yourself, you need sleep.
Wednesday, July 04, 2007
"Will our children know a world with tigers?" - I hope not, because that means I'd have to have kids.
The highlight of this past little while has not been learning that my gums are messed up due to no fault of my own, that I get to have braces again, that I get to have surgery to remove bone from my hip and then surgery to implant it in my gum. Oh, and the wisdom teeth get to come out, but that's not a major major surprise. No, the highlight came a few days ago when I heard that Canada is implementing a "Do Not Call" list. Many of you may think this is not big news. And many of you live in the U.S., where such a list exists already, whether you know it or not. Don't get me wrong here: This is not the "woe is me; someone called during dinnertime" reaction. This is bigger.
For the past several months, I've been getting four or five calls PER DAY from two phone numbers. (Thank you, free caller I.D.) No messages get left on my machine. Why? Some of those calls are robots/computers trying to find out when I'm home so that they know the best time to call me. There isn't necessarily anyone on the other end. Now, I've done a little research. One of these numbers is a call centre in Ontario. The call centre appears to do contract work for anyone who will hire them. Which is everyone. For example: When Columbia House wants to contact you to urge you to re-join their club, when you have credit card debt, when you have unpaid traffic tickets, whatever—this call centre will contact you on behalf of anyone and apparently harass you, if you happen to pick up and there's actually a person on the end of the line. The best part is that they call people who haven't been in a Columbia House club, people who haven't got credit card debt, and people who don't have unpaid traffic tickets. And they will never leave a message, so I figure things can't be that important. But why call so many times per day? What could be so important but not be important at all? The problem with having this number blocked, however, is that so many different groups call out from the call centre that you never know if it's something of relevance/interest or not. Grrrr.
For the past several months, I've been getting four or five calls PER DAY from two phone numbers. (Thank you, free caller I.D.) No messages get left on my machine. Why? Some of those calls are robots/computers trying to find out when I'm home so that they know the best time to call me. There isn't necessarily anyone on the other end. Now, I've done a little research. One of these numbers is a call centre in Ontario. The call centre appears to do contract work for anyone who will hire them. Which is everyone. For example: When Columbia House wants to contact you to urge you to re-join their club, when you have credit card debt, when you have unpaid traffic tickets, whatever—this call centre will contact you on behalf of anyone and apparently harass you, if you happen to pick up and there's actually a person on the end of the line. The best part is that they call people who haven't been in a Columbia House club, people who haven't got credit card debt, and people who don't have unpaid traffic tickets. And they will never leave a message, so I figure things can't be that important. But why call so many times per day? What could be so important but not be important at all? The problem with having this number blocked, however, is that so many different groups call out from the call centre that you never know if it's something of relevance/interest or not. Grrrr.
Wednesday, June 27, 2007
Wham Bam Slam
I was hit by a car today. No injuries.
I was crossing a street with the flow of traffic, had the right of way and all that, when a car at the road I was crossing suddenly decided it needed to pull into traffic. I stopped it with my legs. Had I not been there to stop the car, it would have been schmucked—at least the front end—by all the traffic moving in the same direction that I was. I don't know what the car was thinking. Most people know not to pull too far up at a stop sign. Most people understand that cars on the main road with the right of way can be dangerous. You just don't pull into traffic without looking, do you?
Anyway, the car bumped me and I instinctively put my hands on the hood. There's nothing logical about that; it's not like my hands can stop a car. Instincts are strange that way. However, it did help me brace myself when my legs buckled. Thankfully, I merely buckled at the knees and walked on my way. Driver rolled down her window. Asked if I was okay. Said sorry. I said I was fine, all was good. I walked on.
I was wearing a military-style jacket at the time. When I slammed my hand on the car's hood (not intentionally; just groping to stay afoot and whatnot) I think that my coat's big buttons likely scratched the car. I didn't think to stop and look. But things like that happen quickly. There are basic emotions. Fear. Pain. Urgency. Maybe some fight or flight business. But mostly it's just a "Whoah. Whoah." kind of thing. So basic. So primitive. A different state of mind. Not really a state of mind at all, because it's only the brain stem thinking. Survive. Deal. That's what it says. Trauma involves dealing with emotions after the fact. Things the basic brain doesn't let us think in emergencies, because if we had too much reason we'd kill ourselves with it. First we live, then we deal. And live again. But how to deal with a situation when it has passed? How to reconcile feelings with the non-current event? Unknown.
I was crossing a street with the flow of traffic, had the right of way and all that, when a car at the road I was crossing suddenly decided it needed to pull into traffic. I stopped it with my legs. Had I not been there to stop the car, it would have been schmucked—at least the front end—by all the traffic moving in the same direction that I was. I don't know what the car was thinking. Most people know not to pull too far up at a stop sign. Most people understand that cars on the main road with the right of way can be dangerous. You just don't pull into traffic without looking, do you?
Anyway, the car bumped me and I instinctively put my hands on the hood. There's nothing logical about that; it's not like my hands can stop a car. Instincts are strange that way. However, it did help me brace myself when my legs buckled. Thankfully, I merely buckled at the knees and walked on my way. Driver rolled down her window. Asked if I was okay. Said sorry. I said I was fine, all was good. I walked on.
I was wearing a military-style jacket at the time. When I slammed my hand on the car's hood (not intentionally; just groping to stay afoot and whatnot) I think that my coat's big buttons likely scratched the car. I didn't think to stop and look. But things like that happen quickly. There are basic emotions. Fear. Pain. Urgency. Maybe some fight or flight business. But mostly it's just a "Whoah. Whoah." kind of thing. So basic. So primitive. A different state of mind. Not really a state of mind at all, because it's only the brain stem thinking. Survive. Deal. That's what it says. Trauma involves dealing with emotions after the fact. Things the basic brain doesn't let us think in emergencies, because if we had too much reason we'd kill ourselves with it. First we live, then we deal. And live again. But how to deal with a situation when it has passed? How to reconcile feelings with the non-current event? Unknown.
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