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The Cozy Spot

16 posts categorized "The Sessions"

June 23, 2008

Birthday Wishes & Quitting Time

It's a scene that some people may dread. They are within a work environment that makes the Exxon Valdez oil spill a health spa, and their birthday approaches. This event, as many are aware of, is the office birthday or the day where you cannot outrun your birthday because the office, or department, out of a show of faux friendliness decides to gather all birthdays to show that it cares. I

If you try to outrun your birthday by calling in sick, no worries, they'll make it up the next day; you walk in, faced with silly decorations around your cubicle, thinking 'oh no.' Should your birthday fall on a weekend, you can always look forward to Monday, having people who go through the motions to wish you a happy birthday, before they hand you a K-Mart gift voucher – depending on how much money they have gathered from the other staff on the floor. If people have a beef with you, they won't donate to your birthday or farewell party, as I found out last year when I was gathering monies for a co-worker that was leaving. The moment miffed me so much that I added money from my own funds (the person was also a friend of mine) to buy a decent present for if I left it up to the office drones, I too would have been faced with the glamorous choice of a twenty to thirty dollar shopping voucher/gift certificate, and nothing confirms a lack of imagination more than a gift certificate as a birthday/farewell gift.

Continue reading "Birthday Wishes & Quitting Time" »

June 13, 2008

"We Don't Discuss Libido or Orgasms" & I Don't Do Stiff Upper Lip

I wanted to groan out loud this afternoon. The therapist wanted an update, and this -naturally- opened up the office-work issue. In a nutshell? I told him I hated corporations and I’d had enough of 80% of my colleagues on my immediate floor.

“They only want docile people,” I said, “half of them strain themselves in conversation. You can be nice, you can try all you like but if you don’t fit in (age wise, relationship wise, etc), then you don’t fit in. These people don’t read, they don’t watch films…and that’s it.” I felt like ending it with, “do you want me to go on because even I am sick of it.’’

There were three piles of files on his desk, and he almost forgot mine. He put his specs back on, and began searching the pile for my file. Great, I thought. Here I am, talking away, and the file is more important. So I thought I’d give him a few more things to note down, and even though I thought it was silly to go all out ‘crazy’ I thought it would be fun.

“Do you think you’re much better since the first session?”
“Oh definitely. The drugs do work,” I said, and I meant it. I wasn’t being a smart arse.
“I think so as well,” he made a note.
“How about the second session?”
“Much better, although I still have a few things to work out.”
“Such as?”
“My low tolerance for office cretins, and my reinvented attitude.”
“Which is?”
“These six months have made me think a lot. I thought - the next time something similar happens, and I have to tolerate a corporate bitch, I’m not going to go through the polite bureaucratic crap. I’m not usually aggressive but I’m just going to slap her or the person who starts stupid rumors to be nasty.” Talk about a contradiction…
“Well now…”
“The political correctness doesn’t work. How many transfers have I requested? How many formal grievances have I lodged about managerial misbehavior? No. Next time it’s going to be ‘smack-pow.’’

And it was fun to watch. His wrist raced across the page. I’m talking about turbo-charged notes… “Anastasia is displaying aggression?” “Anastasia is very angry?”

All I could think of was my poor wallet. I sat there going through the same old same old, and there were no breakthroughs. All the TV and film shrinks are overrated and highly exaggerated. He told me I was ‘still very excitable,’ and I suppose to an Anglo that is what it is. To a Mediterranean person, it’s just a normal mode of behavior. We don’t do stiff-upper lip and as for serene political correctness? That doesn’t exist. If we’re pissed, we’re pissed, and we gesticulate our ire. It’s a full-bodied response.

Excitable? Pfft…

He suggested a higher dosage of Zoloft, even writing me up a script. I took it, not that I’m going to use it as I have three repeats on the lower dosage. I felt like saying, ‘hey, I’m a wog…we react this way - in case you haven’t noticed.’

He then asked me if I was having any side effects from the current dosage. I told him that I yawned a lot during the day. He said that was a normal side effect….

“And then there’s my libido. That practically doesn’t exist. Lucky I don’t have a sex life,” and just as I was about to reveal - to him- that I averaged one orgasm a week (when I remembered, when I felt like it), his face reddened.

“Apart from that…” If he had a sofa, I could have had a nap, but he only has chairs.

“I’m just saying, is all,” I said. He changed the subject.

Apparently orgasms are off the discussion list.

June 12, 2008

Nuts is Talking to the Cat

I was temporarily chained to the kitchen sink, trying to break my record washing dishes. It's a strange thing. I fight against it when I often gain more ideas at the kitchen sink. One could say that the sink is where I channel ideas. The only thing that annoys the crap out of me is the telephone, or my mobile phone. When they ring, my hands are usually soaking in suds, I mutter the occasional 'fuck' and begin wiping. My thighs are then wet, and I pick up the phone – eventually.

Continue reading "Nuts is Talking to the Cat" »

June 09, 2008


The title of Lorna Martin's book, Woman on the Verge of a Nervous Breakdown, immediately captured my eye for two reasons, the first being its similarity to a film (Almodovar's Women on the Verge of a Nervous Breakdown). The second reason, relates more to a question. Is there such a thing as being on the verge?

The description of the novel piqued my interest:

"Just before her thirty-fifth birthday, Lorna Martin sat back (with a gin and tonic) and took a look at her life. Things were not going to plan. She was on the verge of quitting her job as a journalist and her love life was in chaos. On top of all that, she didn't know another woman in her mid-thirties who had neither a partner, nor a mortgage, nor even a cat. Convinced that she was having a breakdown and an early mid-life crisis rolled into one, Lorna decided to take the plunge and, with trepidation and a lot of misgivings, signed herself up for the talking cure. In a diary of her journey into the secretive world of therapy, Lorna describes how Dr J helps her tackle her fear of commitment, search for happiness and find the holy grail of true love. Woman on the Verge of a Nervous Breakdown is for every woman who loves the idea of being in love or is looking for the one and wonders whether she'll have to settle for second best. Revealing, intimate and highly entertaining, this is a must-read for anyone who has ever tried therapy and for anyone who has ever laughed at the very idea."

In fact, I'm planning on purchasing the book pretty soon because it's always comforting to read the lighter side of an accelerated mid-life crisis. This sort of crisis is like a perverted accelerated learning class. You reach a certain level of development as an adult, or find that you go through every motion that opposes every goal you started with, and think ''Poof! There goes my life." This is usually followed with anti-creative visualisation, where you imagine yourself greying (including your nether regions) shovelling shit until the day you die, and the shit that you shovel isn’t different to the crap of yesterday. These days it involves other noxious additives like absorbing the behavioural issues of others, being sidelined for jobs, and the entire gamut of office politics.

Most recently, I realized that my thirteen year old son makes more sense than my senior citizen therapist, and that isn't me being age-ist, but the money does factor. I mean, one would have to be a complete ditz if they said they'd forego two hundred dollars for one hour of 'therapy.' It's not like he'd be earning that much on a federal government pension. There are aged pensioners in Australia who can't afford to buy groceries and make do with pet food. This is no urban myth.

"Mum," began my son, "it's been six months now."
"Yeah, and?"
"Why don't you simply quit? Why can't you write a letter, tell them to eff off (that is how he said it, 'eff off'), and look for other work?"

So simple eh? It's not so simple when the realization dawns, when I think of the last few years in one particular – crappy – industry, and the fact that the idiotic company was never interested in advancing employees with training.

"What job could I apply for? The same or similar?" I asked.
"Just quit. It's taking forever. It'll take a year."

What does my therapist say? He says, 'stick it out because they're only trying to bulldoze you,' which is nice of him to observe. I didn't need a person with a medical degree and speciality to tell me that. That is standard corporate behaviour 101. They ought to write manuals on the behavioural pathology within corporations. I think my therapist has fantasies of me seeking further legal advice (which I have, where I was advised that its too expensive/stressful), which involves expensive medical reports. Some shrinks aren't happy with the usual fee, they go for the therapeutic lottery; detailed medical reports cost thousands. I may be on Zoloft, but I'm not an idiot.

It's a stigma to see therapists or take any medication in my culture. People don't admit to it, or they'll never do it for historic principles. Being the offspring of Greek parents can be a strain because of the guilt trips. I'm fortunate – and I say that sarcastically – in that my parents left this world early, but I'm sure if they were here, I would receive the usual lecture:

"It's not that bad. When I arrived here from Greece, I only had one suitcase and I didn't speak the language. I had to toil in factories. You? You're lucky!"

And it's similar for many other cultures that have traumatic historical backgrounds. You come home after a shit day, not wanting to talk to anyone because you're trying to erase the fantasy of killing your boss, and your mother calls to nudge you to confess ("Because you never talk to me anymore!"), and when you do open up (depending on your background), you're met with the comparison:

"We suffered so much in the concentration camps…horrendous…" this is followed by justifiable tears, and you can only feel crappier because you know that despite all the family histories, you still feel like buying an AK47 and shooting up every computer terminal on your office floor for the sheer fun of it, followed by torching those goddamn paper files.

Before you know it, bargaining enters your daily life:

"I'll tolerate this day, and I will pamper myself with a bottle of fine red when I arrive home."
"One more hour, then it'll be lunch, and another smoke."
"One cupcake in ten minutes, breathe in, breathe out…you can do it."

So you don't just have stress, but you have high cholesterol, the onset of emphysema (from all the ciggies), and a terrible, fat inducing sugar habit – you've become a sugar-nicotine-caffeine (take your pick, but you're guaranteed to have one) junkie and as for being on the verge?

You've parachuted into chaos.

I also feel like telling my therapist that my son makes more sense than what he does. I don't know if that would go down well, but I can't shake the old Greek village saying – "You will hear truth from a child or the mad." Grown ups and purportedly sane types beat around the bush with schemes, definitions, political correctness, labels, structures, and more new-age gobbledygook from the latest new-age guru. And I'm not thrilled at the prospect of paying someone to sit there listening to me rant on. I think, 'how fucking lucky are you? I don't get any wisdom, but you can sure as hell sit there pretending to listen to me go on and fucking on! I wish I had your job." But of course I have never said this to el shrinko. If I do, he'll probably go nuts adding more notes to my file - it's what they do. Patient is defensive and angry, deflecting her issues toward doctor.

I'm on the verge of following my son's advice and writing the final resignation draft. I've written a few, but they're far too polite for me to digest, and I toy with the fantasy of writing something my company has never seen. Resignation letters often commence with a lie, such as "it is with sadness that I tender my resignation," or the robotically formal "I hereby tender my resignation (read: I'm so glad to be going and I can't really let you into my head, because in my head I've given you a personal makeover/facial treatment - you're Pinhead).''

I have put together many sentences for my narky resignation letter and I can be a sarcastic bitch when I want to be. Months ago, when I wrote up a formal complaint, I couldn't resist adding sarcasm (and setting the tone of the remainder) to the effect of, 'then again your managers would need to use the Oxford Dictionary to look up the meaning of respect.' I pictured the general manager's eyes bugging out as he read my letter, and thought 'you didn't expect this paper scud missile huh, buddy?' I look at the copy of the eight-page letter now, and see it as my Pissed-Off Worker Opus.

If I go back in time, during my early cyber phase six years ago, I remember a few online playmates telling me that I had a way with words. Oh you have such a way, they'd say as they stroked their hard ons, but it works both ways. When I'm ensconced in lust/love/affection I can be like Cyrano, and when I'm irate I'm Beelzebub…or much like Mae West's "when I'm good I'm very good. But when I'm bad I'm better." I'm just trying to figure out the flavor of bad. Bad as in getting my freak on and freaking people out at the most unexpected moment – as they're sipping their morning tea in the comfort of their plush office – or bad as in Biblical 'I shall smite thee'' with my pen (or in my case – laptop) bad?

There are moments I experience the apathetic, 'fuck you, I don't give a shit anymore,' bad or the the kind of bad that immediately gets hardcore academics cooking up dissociative disorders – and I'm not a big fan of every definition the APA cooks up. At one point homosexuality was a disease to this association, and they subsequently revised their definitions after groups became mad, so it's safe to say that most of the definitions in DSM are grand extensions – much like computer game expansion packs, where frustration and stress' becomes an 'adjustment disorder.'

Being on the verge, as the book title suggests, is a nice way of saying "I've entered the mad zone – in today's terms." Lets face it, being female and 'on the verge' is better than saying, 'Hello, I'm experiencing a breakdown here!" because that type of ailment is closely associated with Freudian hysteria. Being 'on the verge' is like being Alfred E Neuman. Instead of 'what me worry?' it is 'What me mad?'

My question is the following:

What is wrong with it?
Is it really bad to unleash the crazy can of whoop-ass from time to time? Keeping it all in – like a noxious fart – bloats and causes immense discomfort.

I can buy into Lorna Martin's book. Its validity is straightforward. Women in industrialized nations are pressured to be everything and more. It's like we've stepped into a fresh turd, or walked into a practical joke:

"You said you could have everything, well here – here's your everything. Make of it what you will," and then life becomes a grind.

Before you know it, you're expected to work eighty hour weeks, keep up with all the latest fashions (those eighty hours make shopping a bitch, increasing the number of white elephant purchases during the rush), decipher male-speak, transform into a sex kitten or fuck toy on demand, minimize the effect of PMT with a smile when your insides gurgle like the parasite in Alien, and dilute the maternal instinct in order to put on the mask of efficiency or preserve a relationship (until he's ready) – or emulate television characters, like the Louboutin Four (yes, the SATC gals). It is amazing women don't kill random people. We should be canonized for chrissakes – especially now, in a fashion era dominated by male designers who have managed to brainwash women into fitting in skinny hipster jeans that would have hung in the K-Mart kids department a decade ago.

I no longer think of breakdowns as a negative. It's like clearing out the overstuffed closet. Chaos steps forth, like a full water cannon, blasting all the shit to confetti. And it's only then, that one realizes the insignificance of things one inflates to significance.

May 20, 2008

From the Bureaucratic Toilet to Software Upgrades

My day went to the toilet today, and I was ready to flush it when I returned home from La Shrinko. I checked my mail, and received a few official letters from a government office. I thought them routine, so I opened them up, only to be informed that I need to supply more identification.

Man, bureaucrats piss me off. Why? Because they often fail to inform people additional requirements and they do this, in order to 'have a job.' That is how pathetic it is, and I know it from my paper pushing sojourn. I'd be miffed about all the backtracking and dicking around, express my thoughts about the productivity aspects to be told, 'it creates jobs.' What sort of job is that? A job that bores a hole in the brain, like a parasite, and eats every neuron?

Right, I thought. Another trip to the govt office tomorrow morning (because I received my mail late), and another round of document submission. It all seemed like a scene from the film Groundhog Day, commencing with the session, covering the same ground. There is only so much a person can pay a therapist or shrink before they think, 'hold on one fucking second, this is bullshit and I know exactly what is bothering me and I don't need anyone to sympathetically nod their head, pretend they sympathize, and offer serialized advice, that -funnily enough - is slotted into the next session.'

Come 7pm, and I thought the day wasted. At this point I sluggishly washed the dinner dishes, and asked myself where the day actually went. I had so many things planned today. I wanted to update content, and I needed to research a few topics, and it was hogged up by other things.

On my agenda, as late as now, is adding a forum to Lucrezia Magazine. The software upload was simpler than expected. Thank goodness for simple things. If only regular everyday life could be simpler.

April 29, 2008

Life is Too Short to Fart-Arse About

It was as my eyes roamed his office, as my mind stirred its contents, that I prepared to respond to the personal question. I don’t like sexual questions. I think the focus on sex can be overrated, sometimes revealing little about a person. Sexual things tend to catch people off guard. They catch me off guard and I always try to duck or hide behind an imaginary rock.

I’m not embarrassed, and I don’t find the subject awkward, but I don’t like the spotlight facing me. I don’t wish to analyze my sexuality to the finest detail because I don’t think it valuable. It may have been valuable almost two decades ago, as I was testing the mating waters, but now, so many years later, after lovers, flings, idiots and former partners, I feel that I know all there is to know. There is no sexual quest, not in the physical sense. I gathered some nerve, inhaled and met the therapist’s gaze.

“I don’t think sex is part of the issue here, at least not for me.”
“But the sexual undertones behind the event that upset you did affect you.”
“Maybe,” I said, but I wasn’t really sure. There were many other factors involved in my upset. My forced tolerance is one thing that nags me at the best of times. I don’t really understand why a person must be politically correct. I find it incredibly difficult to tolerate fools.
“Can you expand on that maybe?”
“It wasn’t the sexual detail that upset me, it was the confirmation it provided.”
“What did it confirm?”
“That I spent an unnecessary amount of time tolerating stupid people.”
He pursed his lips together, and I detected a shred of discomfort.
“Yes, they’re stupid. I’ve already told some higher ups about the stupidity of their selected managers. Stupid, incompetent,bitchy, just horrible. I’m also angry that previous people, those who were pushed toward an exit, had to tolerate their behavior. I don’t want to put myself in that situation again. I’m too old for that bullshit. So it’s not about the sexual thing or innuendo they created.”
“I see.”
But do people who say that really see?

A large chunk of my early adulthood was about sex. Jeez, I was doing stuff  (along with friends) that wasn’t an ideal topic of discussion on television. Sex on television became fashionable more than a decade after I lost my virginity. I watch comedic sex sitcoms and I feel that I’m being talked down to. It’s as though the script acts as a quasi-educational vehicle, when it’s not and the female characters may as well live on another planet. Actually, scrap that, make it a parallel universe.

I used to like fucking, I really did, until it became like groundhog day and I felt that it lacked a certain joie de vivre, not to mention emotion. I hated how some takers would randomly call me thinking I’d drop everything to suck their dick. As I always say, a fictional fuck is always better than a real fuck. For one, it’s easy to train to be a synchronized swimmer than time a simultaneous orgasm. I am 36 and I think that, and no, I haven’t been married to one man all my life.

The room took on an ashen hued gloom as rain clouds gathered beyond the window.

“So how is your romantic life?”
“It’s non existent,” I said, “I don’t really think about it, and since the Zoloft, I’m lucky to average an orgasm a week. It’s been two weeks…I think I’ve lost count. I’ve been busy.”

Busy for an orgasm? Is that possible. I think so because that is what it has been like for me. The corners of his mouth took a southerly turn. He jotted a couple of lines and I guessed his sentences would have been summed up as, ‘no sex life, no orgasm, low libido (Zoloft), transmutation.’

“You’ve been busy with your hobbies.”
“I wouldn’t call it a hobby now. It takes up as much time as my job did. Eight hours a day easy, and more than eight hours if I’m spending time figuring out technical issues.”

“This satisfies you?”
“I’ve felt more satisfied doing this than dating the last five men in my life, and I feel like I’ve accomplished more.”

We ended there. He wanted to discuss my early life next time. I gathered my thoughts at the bus stop as I waited for the bus home, to finally opt for a taxi.

It’s not like I abhor sex, I don’t, but I don’t feel the urge to conquer as I once did. I don’t feel the urge to travel through the same physical terrain without that X-factor being present. Sex, or fucking, doesn’t automatically mean that a relationship will develop. It took me considerable time to separate sex and emotion as a young adult, or differentiate between sex/sexual attraction and relationships, and that both aren’t bound together in a pink hued, heart shaped bubble. I have passion for other things, but I can’t find the passion for dating, sex and the entire mating rigmarole, like I once did. In terms of dating and/or relationships, I feel like I’m a chef in a serious culinary rut, who can’t find the energy to create a fantabulous meal in a restaurant, and so, I focus on other strengths. Dating has never been my strong suit. I’ve always felt like an actor in a role, behaving in a socially acceptable way, or conversing about polite topics when I couldn’t really care less about the football, cars or the fact that the other person earns a great income ‘in a job they love.’ I don’t do The Rules.

I’ve downsized in the last three months, and some days I think I have one rule:

Life is too short to fart-arse about.

Before (Ages 20 - 29):

- Will he call me?
- What will he think (after we’ve had sex)?
- Will he want to take it further?

The above three have been swapped for:

At ages 30 - 35
- I hope he doesn’t turn into a text message freak
- He’s extremely fortunate to have gone that far with me.
- If it happens it happens, if it doesn’t, I’m not going to waste time agonizing over it, but I wish he was more communicative, because this is pissing me off big-time.

At age 37

I just realized. I don’t care.

April 23, 2008

Missing: Inner Drama Queen

It's almost four in the morning and my life is so sad because here I am, sitting on my butt, waiting for, oh a few hundred files to be uninstalled (so I can reinstall a fully functioning template without me spending hours or eons figuring out modules), so the magazine site - at this moment (but it will change in an hour) - has a huge white page with some sort of error warning on it.

Thousands and thousands of files, and sure, I ought to be yanking my hair out, swearing or, the most likely form of release, crying. Thanks to Zoloft I can't find my inner drama queen and scarier still, I don't mind it that much. The perfectionist within is still there, itching to burst forth and kick a chair, but my limbic system is lazing around sipping a Pina Colada.

April 15, 2008

The Person You Think You Know

One of the best ways to assess your progress is by catching up with a person you haven’t seen for a while and realizing that when they ask you ‘what’s up?’ you struggle for something that is remotely adventurous or career-worthy. I was completely dry over the weekend. Sunday eve saw me get together with a person, and when the subject of work came up, it was disastrous.

There was I, a complete and utter corporate klutz with no real aspirations to climb the corporate latter that is dotted with vampires, sycophants and dumb fucks, and I was seated opposite Miss Successful. She is one of those people who are freakishly organized and ultimately fulfill their adult list of things to do, conquer, and achieve (including taking out a mortgage). The only difference between us is that I can pluck out a conversation point out of nowhere whereas she’ll be perplexed. It will be like, ‘Did you read that thing about the Zion Ranch?” and she’ll be, “the what?” and that is the difference. She will say something like, “I went to a dinner party and saw T__ (for me to say T__ who?), you know…the prat who’d try to get either of us in the sack at the club?’ And that is where it goes downhill. You see, T__, the prat who was oblivious to things like anti-perspirant and everyday manners (burping mid-sentence is not cute), will ascend to the league of gentleman, complete with Porsche and a high powered job at one of the top five banks.

Continue reading "The Person You Think You Know" »

April 13, 2008

"What's Your Name? I Love You!"

Imagine a world without drugs. It would be weird, and I'm not just talking about prescription drugs, I'm talking about the euphoric hormones produced in the human body as well that act like some drugs to relieve pain, such as endorphins.

The first clip is from an actual ad for Zoloft. We don't have drug TV commercials here in Australia. It's probably illegal (I'm not sure, I haven't looked it up, but there are no drug commercials on TV apart from those for paracetamol and over the counter cold & flu concoctions that never work).

The second ad is a parody of the Zoloft commercial and it's hilarious.

April 07, 2008

Being Sucked (Almost) Dry

I found myself making lists this afternoon. I needed to after I almost blew a gasket and said, "Fuck you!" to an Allianz insurance case officer over the phone who was in denial over the fact that they (conveniently) denied receiving documents that I mailed to them weeks ago by express post. It was around that time that I thought that if I had a joint, I'd smoke it down to the last leaf - and I don't smoke joints. Shortly after that phone caper, I went to the supermarket to buy gung-ho comfort food - chocolate. When I returned, I opened the packet, ate one, and found that I wasn't in the mood.

I made two lists. The first was more immediate, and concerned things I was in immediate control over:

1. Focus on the online magazine, and switch to a different content management system.
2. Shift to a new server with  more data space.
3. Write a list of all the add ons that I want to explore.

Then the time came for the second list - my shrink list or points I need to discuss with el shrinko.

1. Why I cannot, under any circumstances, work for idiotic corporations like the one I am currently employed at (which is yet to sort out my current status).
2. How I loathe control freaks and how I have no tolerance for them - particularly at work.
3. My reluctance to ever work alongside or under uber yuppie females with misguided views on feminism.
4. How I need to sever my relationship with my workplace, irrespective of the fact of lost income.
5. Why I won't be -in future- voting in any federal election because all politicians are dickheads.

I'd like to think that I have more control over the above five things, but I don't and I don't think I ever have. I have always had a go at my work, in all workplaces I've worked at, but the last two workplaces presented scenarios that removed control, namely being assigned in sections by female superiors and seeing the inappropriate conduct of the same superiors, and trying to ignore nasty conduct. It was later on today that I found out, from another conversation with the attorney, that the last federal government changed laws to the benefit of corporations like the one I'm supposedly employed by. So if a person has a valid complaint, it will take them forever to have it resolved, not to mention legal fees. Certain types of companies here come under section 14 called the SRC Act. Say your manager decides to spread sexual rumors about you at work and you complain about the stress it has induced, then for some reason insurers and corporations think that this type of behavior is justified 'administrative action' taken by a company, 'in respect of the employee's employment.'


Now I'm off to work on new magazine sections and organize submissions for forthcoming issues.

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