Book Launch Reveal # 5

In which I change my name to Nancy-David and introduce Cindy the Attack Orchid.

Well, I can’t find my hideously expensive under-eye serum but I also can’t put this live broadcast thing off any longer, or my coach-in-a-box—who’s more like a coach who’s a box—will cover me with glossy, stiff peaks of meringue and throw the resulting tragedy under a broiler until I turn into a zombie Baked Alaska. No, that is nothing like Sarah Palin, thanks for checking.

Today’s live broadcast, through a weird intersection of coincidence, synchronicity and serenfuckery, is about creating awareness for my BOOK LAUNCH. And I need to ask you a big favour.

Here’s the thing: If after I’m done you are more aware of my book launch, or—and this is slightly more challenging, so try to focus—if you are suddenly acutely aware of my book and/or my impending book launch after having been completely unaware of it previously, then that will be my success metric. Are you getting this down?

I’ve just gone all hot and red, which is what happens when I throw around jargon-y buzz words like “metric,” or “success.” I realize I should have saved the moment for the live broadcast. That’s me, mister “esprit de l’escalier!”

You’ll see from the video that I decided to change my name to “Nancy-David.” This is in honor of Nancy Pelosi, of course, because frankly she is becoming more and more like an uber-emotional, high-maintenance drag queen every day. Ripping up the SOTU address? WTF?!

You’re too small for that gesture, Nancy. Try it with the cork-soled platform clogs and the ratted-out hair-hopper hair next time, you GILF-y Jezebel, you little “I pray for Trump” firecracker, you’ll get a better response. You’re welcome.

Trump said it was bogus that Nancy said she’s praying for him, and for once I sort of agree with him. You take what you can get! She’s praying for him, perhaps, but definitely about him, and even Anton Lavey would run screaming out of the room were he to overhear.

The thing about Catholics, especially the Italian variety, is they’ve never repudiated the whole pagan thing, so you can go right ahead and mentally dress la vedova Nancy in heavy black lisle stockings, black kerchief and steaming-hot little black dress.

Steaming hot, I hasten to add, not because of its plunging neckline or slit up the side but because it’s fashioned from the coarse wool of a Sicilian goat by a bunch of moustached nonnas under a gnarled pine tree as they weep over their husbands’ thinly-sliced remains. It’s steaming hot because Nonna Nancy’s California leather-belt skin is streaming with the sour sweat of vendetta.


It turns out that doing the right thing was not a right thing. It’s a good feeling to be right, of course, but how can you be right in a system as fucked-up as is the US currently? Think of this: the Senate used to be appointed, not elected, as Canada’s still is, and the intent was to provide non-partisan checks and balances on the power of the executive branch.

What do we have now? Two partisan branches of government, and what an unholy mess it is when the two branches are of different political opinion. The House of Reps is hog-tied with its righteousness because the second branch, the Senate, is standing by, not with non-partisan dignity and oversight, but with more rope and shackles. This makes absolutely no sense, but there it is.

Nancy was smart enough to realize that public opinion needed to favor impeachment, but once she forged ahead she was trapped.

Because she was not smart enough to realize that doing the right thing was suicide if it had no hope of being ratified and concluded by the Senate. The impeachment hearings were a noble endeavour, unavoidable, but it was the Mount Everest of empty gestures.

The Senate “trial” was a sham: A smug, nasty, even cruel, slap-down, two weeks of taunting by entitled, ignorant bullies; a shocking, defiant and near-unanimous breach of trust by out-of-control and power-hungry Republicans who conducted a trial minus evidence and witnesses.

Have you ever wondered why some cases are tried before a judge, and some have a judge and jury? There is no need for a jury trial if the facts of a case are not in dispute. The sole purpose of a trial is to examine evidence and establish the facts of a case.

A trial without evidence and witnesses is not a trial at all.

The result is a breakdown of any pretence of lawfulness and Trump completely validated in his belief that he can do, literally, anything. The President, with utter contempt for the judiciary, commutes and second-guesses the sentences for his criminal pals and interferes with what is supposed to be arms-length justice; the Attorney General does what he’s told. Care for a banana, Republican?

Welcome to post-democracy America, and don’t be surprised. Be afraid.

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Book Launch Teaser #4, For the Underemployed

Today’s live broadcast is dedicated to my dear friend Roz Lawrence, because today is her birthday and she is the only person I know well who’s older than me. Roz, have a wonderful day!

In this episode, I fight off an attack orchid, and, assisted by my invisible friend Glen, contemplate names for bath houses in Muskoka, and read one of my “Facebook Life Events.”

In this life event I have a sensual experience involving a two-pound tub of President’s Choice Blue Ribbon Margarine without looking even remotely like Maria Schneider, mainly because it’s just my foot involved.

Otherwise my uncanny resemblence to Schneider has cost me many a movie role and the spokesperson gig for the Dairy Farmers of Canada. I’m just messin’ with your head, but— made ya look!

ANYWAY.

Please buy my book so I can stop eating used cat litter. The link follows at some point.

Gosh, I have to say, I look fucking fabulous in this one. I think it was the oatmeal scrub, which I’m repurposing as lunch with a handful of raisins I found in the pocket of my hoodie.

So here’s the link: » Buy my book on Amazon before David Sedaris gets jealous and accuses me of pulling focus with my surname and confusing his fans.

AWESOME FACTSX: You will notice that my surname is an exact anagram of “Sedaris,” if you write it backwards, change all of the vowels to “o” and “i,” add an extra “d” then ignore all the letters that don’t fit.

Spooky! 🐱‍👓👀👀😱😱😱🥶😳🤡👹😈💀💀💀!!!!

Every purchase goes 100% to supporting me in my dotage.

Look it up.

Some pics of {dis}interest from the innerweb…

…though I may have mixed up the captions. Hey, I’m 64, so kindly ease up on your running victory laps around me as you hold aloft your Pulitzer Prize for Too-Clever-By-Half. And, sorry, but have we met?

Anyway, I’m extremely upset right now, so please at least pay attention so I can milk this for sympathy.

Seriously, hyper-criticism victim here. Apparently the general consensus is that my posts are too verbose, my hair too buzzed, my nipples too blowsy and my family jewels in need of a bit of a buff—

—and I suppose you’d all collapse on your fainting mats were I to ask for a couple of volunteers and a jar of Vaseline from Dollarama? Cause I’m well-nigh barreling through my sunset decades, and this is no time to stint on the luxuries! Oh, boy, let me tell ya!

Feedback you never asked for. That’s what you get for saying, “Hi, how’s it going?” in response to that three AM text from a number you don’t recognize, the text that says, “Sup, dude?”

Well, THIS is “‘sup, dude.” And if your question is pithy, then I am pithy in reply. If you move your left arm, I move mine. Annoying, isn’t it?

So sue me, the picture captions are gemischt, but, like a tribulation of Trumptweets, they make at least as much sense as the originals, which is not really.

So bite down hard on these perky beauties, Murgatroyd McGraw, and drain what’s left of my colostrum while I ponder the scandals that are Conservative Party Prime Ministerial prospect Andrew Scheer’s 1. lack of certification for real estate sales; and 2. his dual citizenship.

Did you take the precaution of sitting down or did you syncope from the shock, ripping from its moorings, as you plummeted to the parquet, that new “Last Supper” wall hanging you won at the United Church charity bridge tournament? Oh, I am sorry, and my bad for preparing you like that, which was not at all.

Canadian scandals, admit it, fall damply on the spirit. They are the lead apron that god-the-dentist drapes over your chest just when you think you might manage a fleeting, sponge-y hard-on, and bloody grateful for it, thank you very much.

But no. God is the bucket of ice water, the early morning detention in the dead of winter, the asshole who won’t call you “she/her” when you ask, because they know better than you do, which is why they’re an asshole.

When what you most crave, when the one sacrament that will save your life, is vanilla ice cream from the dairy bar, Mr Ten Commandments is there like a shot, serving you up raw Brussels sprouts alongside the liver and onions.

Jahweh, you’re such a kidder, also your pale-faced hippie good-for-nothing offspring, who I keep wanting to call “Jason.”

Well, in all fairness, he does look like a Jason.

We crave juicy scandal, but our hearts are not in it. Like a catalog full of mail-order child brides on their respective wedding nights, we go through the motions. This is Canada, it behooves us to recall, not the United States of Craptardery.

Mercy Pelosi, no! Thanks to Justin Trudeau’s Liberals, Canada has…

…the most successful progressive government in the world …

Atlantic Monthly, Oct 3, 2019,
byline: Stephen Marche

… and, according to independent review, Justin has kept ninety-two percent of his campaign promises, more than any Canadian government in thirty-five years (ibid.)

but will he piss on a hooker then get his lawyer to send her a huge bribe then deny getting his lawyer to send her a huge bribe and then the lawyer goes to prison?

Oh, no, not Mr. Goody-Goody girly drama teacher! He’s too ethical, transparent, sincere.

His “scandal” was asking, sorry, pressuring, the Attorney General, Little Orphan Jody, whether it might not be better to fine SNC-Lavalin, whose unethical execs had already done time for their crimes, using a law originally tabled by the Conservative Party that would allow for remediation and avoid further criminal prosecutions, thus saving the jobs of thousands of innocent workers.

Section Nine of the Conflict of Interest Act prohibits public office holders from using their position to seek to influence a decision of another person so as to further their own private interests or those of their relatives or friends, or to improperly further another person’s private interests.

The review of Trudeau’s actions by Ethics Commissioner Mario Dion merely showed that a remediation agreement would be to the financial benefit of the company.

But if this was wrong and improper, then every government hand out, every subsidy or tax break or exemption from regulations that benefited any company, would be improper. Are all of these benefits suddenly not in the public interest?

The ethics commissioner misinterpreted his own act and jurisdiction. We’ll never make world-class if we keep this up!

Americans, now they know how to do craziness, fakery, scandal. We do “no certification for your real estate license” and stop there.

Not Americans. They won’t even get out of bed until they can sell you a subprime mortgage you can’t afford on a cheaply built condo that’s not up to code, foreclose on it, then rent it out, except not to black people, without a license.

We demand proof that Scheer is a shifty two-faced liar, that’s to say his actual documents proving he has dual citizenship, or his lack of documents proving he isn’t certified to sell real estate. Then, if you can believe anyone could be such worthless white trash, we believe the proof.

Yawn!

Stateside, you just have to start a rumor that Obama’s not American and/or is a Muslim and, despite proof after proof that he is and that he’s not, they refuse to believe the proof. Add to this a few million Facebook users trapped in their alternative-reality bubbles, and those lies go viral faster than an anti-vaxxer’s five-year-old.

Obama was near crucified by a total fabrication, yet up here in The People’s Republic of Snowflakia this eleventh-hour factual revelation—

—that Scheer is ‘Murican AND Canadian, that is to say, the potential leader of our Loyalist after-hours club pretending to be a nation isn’t unequivocally native to these here parts—

—this notion barely ripples the foam on our Tim Horton cappuccinos {and make mine a “doppio-doppio,” eh, Signorina! Prego!}

As Bob Rae, former NDP leader, all but expressed it, rabbity incisors flashing: “Hey, nobody’s perfect!” Bob should know, having inflicted on Ontario, back in the 1990’s, a unique version of socialism that looked an awful lot like several imperfect years of neoliberal austerity.

Where, I ask you, were all those trips to Florida and welfare handouts and gourmet food banks we’d heard so much about? Where were the perqs for being poor?

And where, for that matter, are my pants? Anyone—?


Back by popular demand¹, your favorite² game³

“Oh, dear, did I mix up the captions, ROTFL?”

¹ Popular demand / ² favorite: As described by randomly-sampled cohort (N=5) of 8 to 10-year-olds (“Miss Smedley’s class”) after promising to do their homework for a month, or, actually, just giving them the cash equivalent. Results are accurate ± 3% when compared to other students who’ve been bribed to pump up my stats.

³ “Game:” Not really a game, more like the results of a game. Your participation is limited to surveying the results and laughing at the absurd mismatch between the caption and the image. That’s the joke, right? It’s not really more profound than that, I mean, like there’s not really anything to “get”, OK?

Jeezus. Are you always this high-maintenance?



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Ten reasons it’s great to be Canadian

just off the top of my head, currently covered with a tuque

Sea to shining sea?

JULY 1ST IS CANADA DAY. So I took a break from my usual morning task of rendering seal blubber in my igloo to count the ways it’s great to be a Canuck. It’s not an exhaustive list.

I’m sure there’s at least eleven.

(*Note to Americans: Canada is one of those “other countries” that you first learn about at Harvard. If you need to get your bearings, just think “Up there. Snow. Mounties. Cold. Justin.” Confusion, dizziness and sobbing are normal. You’re going to be fine.)


One:
You get to say “beaver” in mixed company.

Two:
You don’t have to worry about your country’s leader messing up and embarrassing you in full view of the entire world, because Justin doesn’t really do anything, and if he does mess up at least he’s a feminist, and anyway helll-oooo?! Trudeau, OK?

Three:
The heavy ankle shackles and full-body chains of Socialism help you stay trim and meet your “Canada Moves!” fitness goals when you drag their jaw-dropping extra weight along the sidewalk day in and day out.

  • BONUS: Looking for someone to play the ghost of Jacob Marley in “A Christmas Carol”? Hire a Canadian! We already have the costume!

Four:
It’s cool to have Queen Elizabeth II as our official head of state, or to be accurate, the giant, stuffed sock puppet dressed in primary colors that is used to represent Her Majesty, who actually died in 1973.

Five
Taking the jaw-dropping VIA Rail train with the glass dome to the west coast!

During this fabulous, epic journey you pass through the State of Alberta, renowned for its jaw-dropping one-hundred-percent unemployment rate ever since the oil industry collapsed.

  • BONUS: Get Andrew Scheer to pose for you in his cowboy hat, flanked by his forty-five wives dressed in modest full-length calico!
  • Get the little lady to sign her uterus over the the Conservatives and receive a limited-edition baseball cap that says, “My handmaid pledged her womb will U2?”

Six
Our annual, jaw-dropping White Heterosexual Pride Week festivities.

Top-rated parade experience this year: Faith Goldy and her sensational “Night Porter”-themed float with its celebrated Nazi Rainbow Flags. Kanada Über Alles! Droppings of the Jaw, ja?!

Seven
We can eat delicious “poutine” in historic Québec City! (Except while wearing a niqab, currently punishable with death by guillotine.)

Eight:
Playing rollicking, traditional Canadian games, like:

  • Who’s Got the Transfer Payment Resentment”
  • “Canadian Celebrity: Race to Oblivion”
  • “Super Frank Gehry-O”
  • “Save Toronto Waterfront! Trash Toronto Waterfront”
  • “Snub the Rich Asian”
  • “Honey, I Lost the Indigenous Women”

and, as a nod to equality,

  • “Bury that Fag in a Planter, Yo” sponsored by Mark Saunders, Chief of the Toronto Amateur Police Association.

(No prizes for the last two, just that warm glow…

…of shame.)

Nine:
I get to live in Toronto, “The City that Never Sleeps Except When it’s been Partying Too Much and Gets a Good Eight Hours so it Won’t Catch a Cold,” and the financial engine of our vast nation!

Here are some Visitor Tips! (Uh-oh: Three-Alarm Envious Warning!)

Don’t miss:

  • The Great Wall of Condos. Legend has it that beyond the wall there lies a mysterious, glittering body of water called “Lake Ontario” — but don’t try and find it because you’ll be trespassing; and
  • Sidewalk Labs’ “Googleopolis,” our future center of government, the office where you’ll go to pay-per-service when you want electricity or an ambulance, and headquarters of “STASI.”

Most popular this week:

  • After a heart-stopping two-hour wait to witness a migrating herd of the famously shy and skittish TTC Streetcars, it’s just a quick jaunt to the University District where you can gasp at stunning “Queens Park.”
  • Formerly the Ontario Legislature, this jaw-dropping piece of priceless Romanesque Revival granite architecture that we forgot to tear down is now the sumptuous private playground of Doug Ford and his entire extended family!

Ten:
It’s so woke to see the look on peoples’ faces when you say, “Eh?”

As in, “They should have put the Statue of Liberty up here, eh?”

Jaw-dropping!

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Don’t forget: If you enjoyed my post, let me know! Click the “Like” button; share on social media, give it a star rating (top of the page) and/or comment below. That way I know how to pander to you.

How to Read my Blog:

an instructional interlude



Dear valued visitors and followers: This is the content of a new page, accessible from the main menu (above) and let’s everyone wish it a very warm welcome. I wanted regular and new readers to know it exists, to draw your attention to it (me), to be encouraged to read it, and to take the hint. — DR


MY, HOW STANDARDS HAVE FALLEN! I can hear you rolling your eyes from here to Des Moines, and I know you’ll say to yourselves, “Of course, he’s doing the old-guy thing, the back in my day speech.” You may be right. I may simply be following tradition and experiencing inevitable change as a worsening, a dumbing down, when I should be grateful for progress.

That’s the narrative, isn’t it? That humans are following this trajectory of progress, albeit so slowly at first that nothing happens for millenia. Everyone just sits and stares at each other. And trust me, after a lifetime spent examining the fossil record so you don’t have to, I can confidently tell you that these millenia of staring are sheer tedium.

Sitting and staring. That’s it, dude. That’s the entire calendar of activities on cruise ship Earth. You could kill for a decent conversation, but because there’s no other activity—except for finding food, eating food, getting sick from the food, dying from the food or surviving the food, at which point the survivor carves the name of the food onto the Great Big Rock of Food That Won’t Kill You, with five stars and the “best before” date, which at this point is straightforward, “best before you starve to death”—because the only rainy-, or cloudy- or unseasonally cold- or even sunny-day activity is sitting around staring at everyone else who survived the food, good luck with that having a conversation thing.

I mean, there’s only so much feigned interest you can project in a lifetime.

While the proto-men and proto-women stare at each other it’s so quiet they can hear individual leaves falling onto the savannah, which they experience like bowling balls thudding onto parquet, notwithstanding they would likely not use that exact terminology just yet. Bowling, and therefore similes involving bowling  balls, have not been invented.

We’ve got a long ways to go before they invent bowling, let me tell you!

Then once in a hundred years somebody pipes up, “Hey I was just thinking that maybe—” and everyone gasps and turns around in astonishment with a big whooshing sound to look at her.

Unfortunately, this is so intimidating she immediately forgets what she was going to say.

“Oh… nothing. Never mind. No, really, it’s OK, it was just—an idea…” (This, by the way, is the birth of passive-aggressive behavior, and not a moment too soon.)

Everyone sighs, maybe a couple of grumblers go I wish she’d stop DOING that! and then—silence again for another century or two.

Meanwhile everyone’s thinking, 

What are those pin pricks of light in the night sky, and how did they get up there and why don’t they fall down? If someone asks, I’ll say it’s Wilbur, The Great Caribou! We could use a little light humor! And anyway, what the heck are pin pricks, or for that matter, pins?

Gradually the silences get shorter and shorter, and you hear distinct noises as civilization develops. The chattering of villagers, the whoosh of the scythes, then, at exponentially increasing speeds, the rattling of looms, the hum of conveyor belts, the blasts of jet engines, ending in the present with the whine of one-sided conversations hitting the back of your neck, announced by smartphones generating what was probably supposed to sound like music but only if you’d never heard music.

Do you see how the standards fall? Nowadays you hear the one-sided conversation.

Growing up, I was taught: Ssh, not so loud! People will hear you! Use your indoor voice! Be seen and not heard! Conversations were restricted to the participants. Likewise telephone calls. You went into a little booth and slid the door shut because you didn’t want people to overhear you.

Think what this means: a telephone call was as private as going to the bathroom.

Privacy has always been mankind’s greatest luxury, and no, I don’t mean data. We didn’t use words like data in the fifties, sixties, even seventies. You didn’t get data on your Princess phone. You got your mom’s voice asking why you hadn’t called, or your boyfriend saying he had a headache when you knew very well he was screwing the football coach. Data was a word you used, maybe, if you were Robert Oppenheimer. Probably even Einstein didn’t say data.

Yeah, right. I’ll show you “headache”! That’s rich!

We worry about data now, but back then we were worried about our conversations being overheard or disturbing other people.

Remember other people?

And we’d be mortified if someone had been listening to our conversation or found out our secrets. Secrets were still in their early phase of something you didn’t tell. My great aunts, Victorian women all, never told anyone that my eldest sister got pregnant before she married the guy, nor did they tell anyone about my parents’ divorce. This was private business, and if you talked about someone’s private business who wasn’t there, that was gossip.

Gossip was tacky, except for the rare occasion when it was a ray of sunshine in an otherwise cloudy afternoon.

How many months? She didn’t! Oh, I know! And you mustn’t say you heard this from me, but—apparently he’s that way!

We kept to ourselves out of fear of making the other person uncomfortable. No one knew your financial woes, the minutiae of office politics, the state of your marriage; we did not make our friends into our psychiatrists or social workers.

Now we live in public, holy prostitutes assuming the face-down spread-eagle to receive validation from anyone who might pass by. We are nothing on our own, because we are empty, and we are empty because we know nothing but the fascinating contents of our own heads and because we haven’t left the house since MySpace.

We have no allure, because we are so easily accessible. We are brands, personas, stories we tell that might as well be true.

We have no need for privacy, for we are at once the incentive and the prize, the scoop and the investigative journalist. Our mere bodies, those archaic chunks of pre-industrial too, too solid analog flesh, may melt, like so much ground beef past its sell-by date, into compost; but our personalities, fizzing with fake pizzazz like artificially sweetened soda and echoing third-hand opinions down broken phone lines crackling with static, have been uploaded to the cloud for all-device synchronization and easy universal obfuscation.

Standards have fallen! Where there was once charisma we now have persuasion; for glamour, brand loyalty; for thought, sponsored content. We long to read web copy that doesn’t suck instead of literature that, guaranteed, did not contain the word “suck” unless someone was talking about bees.

We no longer keep to ourselves in dark studies lined with ancient texts teaching ourselves eternal truths, while disciples as yet unknown to us spent a lifetime beating a path to our door; now we are everywhere, and depressingly unavoidable.

To award yourself Andy Warhol’s fifteen minutes of fame you at least had to throw on a metal mini-dress by Paco Rabanne, gloss your lips white and learn to frug before hailing a cab to The Factory. Compared to Instagram, this is like getting your Baccalaureate in semiotics at the Sorbonne.

We document the mysterious trail of our morning glory muffin from its perfect plating at Jet Fuel to its passage through our perfectly moisturized lips; we would, given our druthers, eagerly await and document its return to the primordial light and the roiling waters at the other end had we the time, the followers and the influence that really matters.


Not wishing to be thought an old piece of dried-up ear wax, a wizened pair of donkey testes, not au courant, I take a deep breath and, both melding with and standing out from the crowd, I vow to proffer my creative process for public, that’s you, consumption. I see no reason to wait, all high-and-mighty and flaunting my good taste, until my work is polished and ready. How common!

That’s why, like a fledgling terrorist holding in front of me a terrified kindergarten child as hostage, I thrust into the limelight my crude first drafts and confused initial thoughts.

These are never totally crude and unworthy of your attention, though. I mean, this is me, dudes. I consider a pressed shirt and a bow-tie from Harry Rosen to be casual wear. Or at least, I considered that way during the three years I actually got paid by an employer and could afford to be abused by the Harry Rosen sales staff, and how, I ask you, how will they keep me down on the farm, once I have seen Harr-ee?

Oh my GOD will he ever get to the point, and meanwhile could someone drive right through that red light while I dart onto the crosswalk without looking? comes your exasperated cry.

OK, here’s the point:

Read each post more than once. Again for emphasis: Read each post more than once.

(Including this one.)

That’s it! Really. That’s how to read my posts. As a series of drafts that I polish into their final form, for I have turned the light and breezy blog post about making waffles or how to monetize your hate group into a soul-searching, overly-literate polysyllabic Proustian nightmare clocking in at anywhere from two to three thousand words.

Thus, to get the full effect, and only if you’re interested in these things, read my unpolished initial thoughts, but return, once, twice or even three or more times, after a few days, weeks, or months, for my posts are not mere words on a screen, but living entities that materialize, mature and mutate at hectic, time-lapsing speeds.

And you’ll never know what living entity to expect. Sometimes you’ll see a peony fluttering its petals like runway model’s Oscar de la Renta ballgown; sometimes a gecko opening its lipless lizard maw to gulp down a—whatever it is geckos gulp down. I’m no one to judge.

This means that you can follow the progress of each piece as though I were on live cam, but without the cam.

Why no live cam? Because I write naked.

That’s correct. Tits to the breeze and always wary of my hot cup of coffee. And now that I’m certain you’ll never, ever be able to get that image out of your mind—

my work here is done.

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