dariaphoebe: (redhead)
The trip back down the hill was chilly, but I had no time to think about how cold I was. It took all my concentration to pay attention to the underlit road that led back into the river valley from my brother's house. A strategic error in judgement, I joked: the sun had gone down hours before, and I found myself needing to bike 9 miles to the hill overlooking the valley of the other river in a sundress and sandals as the temperature hovered less than 20 degrees above freezing.

The respite from the wave of feelings was welcome, and I quickly forgot the idea of doing an abbreviated ride to toss the bike on a bus for half the trip. I'd visited friends en route the other direction, and we mused, among other things, about how we'd not seen much of each other recently. Both of them, upon catching up with my life, offered whatever help they could muster, but I was sure as was invariably true that I could make a go of things myself.

Upon arriving for my nephew's birthday after the long slow slog uphill from the river, I chatted with my brother's father-in-law, who groused that I hadn't acknowledged him a month prior while bicycling inbound from the far-flung east suburbs as he drove the other way. I told him how often a horn from a passing motorist was harassment instead of a greeting, and he seemed surprised.

The hours since then had included countless other emotional moments as well. Someone pulled a book off the shelf that my brother had written and illustrated as a grade school assignment. From the front fell a picture of me, the day before my 18th birthday, with my girlfriend on our way to my prom. The convertible which -- as cars went -- would probably always be the ideal I aspired to reposed behind us. I thought about my impending birthday and realized the significance: 25 years ago!

As it came upon time to start heading south, a cool breeze through an open window led to a bit of panic. My sister lent me her light cardigan. My soon-to-be sister-in-law asked if I could use a pair of pants. But nothing comes with quite the unique set of feelings as when a man offers you his flannel shirt, and that man is your father. I never got, and never will get to be, daddy's little girl. I put the feelings aside in the moment and offered a pragmatic take.

"I'm a size 10. I'd be swimming in it."

After the climb over the river crossing positioned at the high end of the numbered grid of the city, I turned away at the traffic light from the most beautiful steel bridge of 1961 to warm myself by pushing at the ascent to the peninsular plateau. The only feeling I had time for as I pushed on was unabashedly positive: I could finish this ride, however cold, because I was a bad-ass.
dariaphoebe: (redhead)
I bet I seem pretty boring these days. I know I feel it sometimes. Remember when you'd find me at a concert, or when I went out to take train pictures? Not all that long ago, was it...

I'm still the same person I was. I still like the same things I did before. And I still do them, when I can. So why is it you always only ever see me talking about gender anymore?

I mused about this very thing even as I biked under the railroad tracks and the adjacent buses-only highway upon starting my journey back into the city after my appointment. Even as I wished a train might come by, i knew I had naught but a cellphone on my person to snap a photo, and no ability to follow it.

I always talk about gender because I don't have the luxury of not thinking about it. Take those train pictures, for instance. The car went with the marriage that ended because I had to, and did, face the issues I had with my own gender. I can push my bike -- one that's not very fast -- to maybe 15 mph. That means I get one shot. There's no following along. It also means I need to haul whatever photography gear I wish on my person.

The car was hardly the only thing. The other vectors of instability in my life couldn't be laid fully at the feet of simply being myself, but at the same time I couldn't discount that it was a factor. Then there was the appointment I'd come from, preparatory work for the surgery I worked hard to get myself in line for before discovering I had no way to actually pay for it. I didn't have the ability to simply put it out of my mind. So, despite what the day had wrought, I continued moving feebly along the path to that treatment.

No train appeared, and I had a wee bit of relief knowing I wouldn't have reason to kick myself for the picture I missed. Perhaps another day soon, I told myself. Maybe I'd even be lucky enough find someone to join me for an afternoon of it.
dariaphoebe: (redhead)
The route I was taking was one which I often cycled while crossing the city. Today, though, I was just riding in a circle, albeit one chosen to maximize the hills I'd need to climb. 35 minutes on, I felt as though I hadn't worked hard enough. My body yearned to be pushed harder. "It's a dynamo," I thought, "screaming to be spun up to full power." I'd just spent a while struggling to get some software I was developing to do what I wanted, and while it still didn't, my mental processes were every bit as engaged as I rode as my physical ones.

I turned the corner and climbed the slight upgrade several blocks before stopping at a traffic light. The ride was gravy, an unexpected bonus on a day where I expected no break in the weather. The remaining portion of my circle was not long, but I knew what I needed to do.

As the light changed, I pulled away, and after crossing the intersection pushed myself relentlessly at the hill. 10 meters. 20. 40. I'd climbed over 50 in the couple blocks the hill traversed, watching them tick off in the eyepiece of my goggles. When I reached the crest, I tapered off my effort, and let the breathlessness wash over me.

How do I bottle this up? How do I, in other moments where I am struggling to simply keep up with my load, tap this? Most importantly, I wondered as I coasted to the next light, how do I help others get here?
dariaphoebe: (redhead)
As the brisk morning air hit my face during my quick descent, I recounted another ride from not that long before. A recent weekend morning, the unseasonably warm weather and idyllic surroundings offered a somewhat more friendly ride. On that occasion, I'd slowed for a traffic light as I rode west through the city park separating the hilltop neighborhood where I've been staying from more central parts of the city, and looked ahead.

The view that met my eyes was that of a skyscraper. Built at the cusp of the era which had ushered in Art Deco, it instead offered a nod by virtue of its Gothic styling to the grandiose title that adorned it. With its peak well above the tree line, it was easily the most evident part of the cultural center of the city from the point at which I was stopping. The building was completed in the 1930s, well before my birth. However, before I came to a stop, the light changed, and I moved ahead. The vehicle facing me passed over my left shoulder, and out of sight. As I entered a curve, the road was empty, and the clearing now instead framed downtown. Part of it, anyway.

Two buildings were then visible. Finally, one afforded a view of the Art Deco style. It had been the tallest building around until shortly before my birth. The peak of the other visible building did nothing to betray the late date of my ride. The landscape likewise offered no cars to date the picture in my mind. Nothing my eyes could see offered any hint that the viewer had, in fact, been born yet.

For so many years, I felt like I was performing humanity as an empty vessel. The tipping point had been reached and passed, though, and I no longer feel like I am faking it. I can't deny that relatively recent events and life circumstances hurt. At least, though, I no longer can conclude the world would be better off without me, even in moments where I'm unsure I'd even be missed.
dariaphoebe: (redhead)
Heading to lunch, I mentally computed a reasonable route for a bicycle, and headed across the plateau that fills the inner area of peninsular Pittsburgh. About midway, while stopping for a traffic light, suddenly familiarity washed over me.

The smell that impugned upon my lungs was one I knew well, but while placing it took but a moment, I had to look over my shoulder to figure out why. An auto body shop. As a child, my father would often, upon finishing body work on a car, get out the spray gun, attach it to the compressor, and refinish the vehicle in the garage just below my childhood bedroom. The smell of enamel being applied was still one I remembered, even if those occasions were now many years gone.

This was easy, though. An obvious case, easily explained. There were other, innumerable times, where an odor evoked feelings I couldn't so readily pinpoint. Some transported me instantly to a place, while others simply offered déjàvu with no evident memory to correlate.

How much of your life is ingrained, and do you notice it? I've recently redoubled my efforts to practice self-awareness, and occasions like this one certainly provide an opportunity to flesh out the building blocks that made me the woman I am today, big or small.
dariaphoebe: (redhead)
I pedaled along the edge of the road, climbing back over the ridge which separated my neighborhood from those to the south. As I ascended, I looked left, then right, at the walls of the valley I was climbing. The remnants of what had been a soaring, concrete arch span caught my eyes. Built during the City Beautiful movement, it had been imploded when I was 5. 37 years later, I still remembered the picture in the newspaper.

The day before, I visited an urban mall. I remembered it from college, when it still had shops. This day, the hallways were an event space. Maybe a couple hundred meters from downtown, its construction wiped swaths of a struggling neighborhood from the map. And it hadn't been long before that I'd noticed a sign in another neighborhood, one where a pedestrian mall had been tried to little success and much lasting damage.

Today, my city is increasingly vital. Project after project is springing up, but substantially in neighborhoods where there is cream to skim off. And while I welcome new activity and opportunity, all I need to do is look around to see how previous attempts caused more damage than they fixed. Things have definitely improved in many ways even just in the last 10 years, but the fruits of those changes are often inaccessible to substantial swaths of the population. So my challenge, to myself and you, is this: how do we steward a city where instead of simply concentrating amenities for some, the improvements are in reach of everyone?
dariaphoebe: (redhead)
I just wanted some dinner. The craving for hot chicken had been bubbling over for a while. Hearing of the grand opening of a new place that day with it on the menu made my choice rather obvious, and I slogged along in the humid air to alas arrive a bit sweaty.

The course of the day had seen me run into a friend from college when I was steps away from getting lunch with my spouse, a friend from high school while bicycling to dinner, and another friend while eating. But I also managed to pick up someone else. The contractor who'd done the renovations where I was started hovering at my end of the bar. I spent much of my meal reading a book in my lap, but as I looked through my swept bangs, he always seemed to be staring, with some intermittent one-sided flirting. So I was relieved when he wasn't present as I picked up to leave. Instead, he was outside, and stepped up his game as I was loading and unlocking the bicycle.

I slunk quietly away into the night and hoped no one was behind me, sad that what had otherwise been a great dinner would now be sullied by this. Almost home, I paused for a picture of the city and ended up being diverted by a friend for a drink with her. Already weak, when the next bizarre flirting came, I just sat there, jaw mostly agape. Then there were unwarranted assumptions about my person and my history.

When I finally got home, the shower I took was for more than just washing away the smoke of my last stop. I wanted it to wash away the feelings I had. It's nice to feel desirable, but the unshakable idea in my head just then was different. I couldn't but think I was being exoticized due to assumptions about my body. The worst bit, though, was that those assumptions were true.
dariaphoebe: (redhead)
I'd hit a bump hard, and struggled to regain control of the bike. Suddenly, the wheel I was looking down at was no longer turning. I put my arm out as I went down, and hoped for the best.

Just two blocks earlier, I'd ridden past a friend, doing a double-take at her back to try to confirm it. I'd concocted a route to my doctor visit that involved hills that were steady, but not steep. The day, after all, was still hot even if it couldn't hold a candle to the one before it.

The casualties weren't all that bad, really. A bloodied elbow. A ruined pair of patterned tights. A bent heel on the pumps I was wearing -- a pair I was already thinking might be on their last wear. I collected the bicycle and my possessions off the street, then released the front brakes so the bent wheel which took me down could still turn, and rode the remaining third or so of the 8 mile trip to the appointment on the now-crippled bicycle.

After repairs later in the afternoon, the ride to my next stop afforded me a few mildly-steamy minutes to think. After a discussion about where I was relative to what I was looking for with hormone replacement therapy that morning, the ways in which I was still falling short fell into a stark contrast.

But just as I hadn't let the tumble pull me off my game, I was determined that neither would this. I am certainly not where I hope to be, but I realized as I pushed myself along toward my next appointment that I had no idea when things would be done, and there could be no waiting. The life I have is mine to cherish every moment of. But it means I can't wait for eventual perfection. I have to work with where I am and what I have.
dariaphoebe: (redhead)
As I'd driven up the hill, I saw the traffic and shuddered at the idea of the trip back down. But the time had come, and I pedaled out into the street when a hole in traffic appeared. I had little doubt that none of the morning commuters on that first part of my route had ever seen a cyclist in a brilliantly-red dress and heels holding their lane ahead of them, and it gave me no small bit of pride to know it. Further along, I slipped through stopped traffic to make my left and climb over the ridge separating me from downtown while the drivers waited for the light that would admit them to the much more direct tunnel.

Therapy was hardly an hour after I'd clambered on the bike. I arrived with minutes to spare, paying my bill before waiting to be collected for my session. I caught her up since I'd last seen her two weeks ago, recounting lack of progress on some fronts. We segued into a discussion of what else was up in my life, delving into how I was feeling at the moment. She'd chided me many times for failing to own my successes, but for a bare minute, I did. I let myself cry, too, an occurrence uncommon enough to be countable on the fingers of one hand.

Was it really that surprising that I'd be unable to hold on to positive feelings about myself in a world which tried sometimes even unconsciously to make me feel like a freak? I couldn't promise it would work, but I swore I would try to hold on to those emotions. After all, I'd just made biking an unlikely route in an improbable outfit look like a fun, even sexy, thing to do to hundreds of random strangers. Why the heck should I be letting anything else based on the prejudices of others stand in my way?
dariaphoebe: (redhead)
I'd ridden up the hill, as always, and on this day had chosen a street which looked like it might pass the highest point on the slope, one that helped form a bowl around a valley behind the downtown-facing hillside. As I passed that high point, I looked around at the high points around me that circled the rim of that bowl, as well as the spouts etched by millions of years of water which cascaded down, forming descending channels in several directions from that uneven rim.

I couldn't see over the edge, but the skyline peeked over the houses beside me. With all I could see, I wondered who could see me, and as if on cue, a lady stood up from behind a car where she'd been presumably collecting something from the ground. I saw her gaze in my direction as I passed, unsure of how to read her face in the brief moment I saw it before I was past her.

Today is Transgender Day of Visibility. In some sense, though, I live as though every day is. Through whatever combination of privilege, luck and effort, I am able to live my life in the open, without requiring effort to conceal who I am. If my style conveys my female-ness, the body I have surely telegraphs its origins. The diagnosis in my file with the therapist is gender dysphoria, and I certainly feel dysphoric about my body all too often. That's my burden to bear, but I feel I have nothing to gain by hiding myself, and so I don't.

I won't lie: being myself is a blessing, and exercising that is entirely a selfish thing. But if you think I am the first transgender person you know, the odds are pretty good you're wrong. I just happen to be the first to show you.
dariaphoebe: (redhead)
The day was bright, but I took in none of it. I'd pushed up, and then along, the hill without taking my eyes off my path. The route was carefully chosen: I was retracing one from the previous afternoon, when I needed to get out into the sunlight. The hill was my haystack, and the needle wouldn't be easy to find, especially considering the 35 mph ride back down.

The earrings were a series of filled, concentric circles, of thin silver wire. They'd come from the thrift store, like most of my jewelry, and had been 3 dollars in a set with 2 other pairs. On the first day I wore them, a list of "what women should not wear after 30" made its rounds, and my dangly earrings made the list. It was fitting: my whole wardrobe is not one which kowtows to rules. But as I unmade myself before bed that night, one was missing, and I was sad.

I knew where I'd been since I last was sure I had them on. They were not in the coffee shop, so I made the bicycle trip with my face glued to the ground. I scanned everywhere, making a note of where cars might have parked since the day before. No luck. On a subsequent ride, I checked there. Still no.

Sometimes, though, with concentrated focus, you can miss the bigger picture. As I went to the kitchen a few days later to get a drink, I noticed something shiny against the baseboard. It was probably in plain sight the entire time, and I walked past it each time I got out or put away my bicycle. It's easy to be thrown off your game when you make a mistake, but you risk not recovering from it if you lose focus.
dariaphoebe: (redhead)
Biking in winter is annoying. Probably, though, not for the reason you'd guess. This week, the temperatures have crept up close to the freezing mark several days in a row, and each of those days I have climbed into the saddle and rode from my bottoms neighborhood to the top of the hill, as well as around the neighborhood: yesterday, to lunch in a cute outfit probably better suited to 20 degrees warmer.

We live in a house with an odd lineage. The kernel of the house is an 1885 rowhouse, but it's been added to in various ways, some nonsensical when you look at it in perspective. One of them, a since-enclosed back patio, is uninsulated and not on a proper footer. We made plans to remove and replace it with a two-story addition, which is when the fun began. After tossing tens of thousands of dollars down a figurative hole, the ownership was resolved, but we are left with the patio. And so this winter, as each before, when the ground freezes, the door frame racks and we cannot open the door to the outside. You know, the door to the room where the bikes are.

My bicycle is about control, or the illusion of it. I control the destination and the route. I keep myself moving, in shape. And sometimes, you just need to be reminded not everything is out of your control.

Today, like the others, I climbed the hill. "Up!", "Go!", "Push!", I told myself. I paused at the top, on the edge of the ridge line, and gazed over the frozen city before returning home to continue working.
dariaphoebe: (redhead)
The bridge featured six lanes of traffic, but ran from one traffic light to another. No one would be moving fast. I turned onto it, took to the gutter and started to crossed back to the side of the river I needed to be on.

The night before, I told my colleagues I planned to bike the 4 flat miles to dinner to meet them. It was snowing, I was told. Drivers here can't deal with snow, they said. And if you use non-main roads, police will look at you askance, and when you get carded things will go downhill quickly.

The light changed behind me and traffic began flowing in the lanes beside me. I had no idea what the law said here in terms of required clearance for passing a bike, but no one was uncomfortably close. Unlike the other 2 bridges I'd already crossed (one for non-motorized vehicles only, another with a sidewalk and a bike lane), this bridge had no provision for bikes, and no signs even suggesting it as a route. A police car passed, not even slowing to check me out. I felt no danger.

The wisecracks that were made had scantly veiled concerns that I neither took my safety nor my responsibilities seriously enough, and as I had pushed along the street through an industrial neighborhood en route to that point, I considered why. I felt futility at meeting the world's expectations of what I was supposed to be. Fairly certain for most of my life that I could never be that person, I'd shaped myself around the idea that I could prove so many instances of "You can't do that" were untrue. And so the ongoing challenge of my existence is attempting to balance on the tightrope crossing the chasm separating safety and sanity.
dariaphoebe: (redhead)
I wasn't sure what to make of the look on the valet's face as I strode into the hotel after dismounting my bike and grabbing my laptop. The wedge heeled boots I had on clattered loudly on the stone floor. Impressed? Judgemental? Leering? I mumbled a greeting and headed upstairs to my friend's room.

Last year I probably biked more miles not wearing a dress than most people in this country biked, period. And that was a bare fraction, surely less than 5%, of the miles I put under my wheels. The tight integration of those two wheels with my identity was only underscored while looking through old pictures, and finding a train picture I'd taken in Harrisburg several years ago where my bike was barely visible in the edge of the frame: I had slung my camera on my back and biked from my hotel, actually heading from the hillside above the west shore all the way past the city to the east that day.

With the cold weather, I felt pudgy, and unable to find a good way to work it off without risking frostbite, spills on ice, or worse. My cheeks felt fat, my waist bloated. And that was on top of the more ongoing dysphoria. Body image issues are part and parcel of life, especially for women. But the odd look from the valet drove home one thing: my body may not be behaving in the way I'd prefer, but it was 15 degrees, and I was biking anyway. My body may not be the one I want, but it's the only one I have, and it was mine to keep working at shaping it to what I need it to be for myself.
dariaphoebe: (redhead)
It was cold as I reached the third plateau, and I'd neglected to put on a scarf. I slowed to catch my breath and looked down through the pedals. As there had been the day before, an old towel was frozen to the street, looking a good bit like a silhouette of Abraham Lincoln's head in profile.

At the first plateau, though, I had sucked harder for breath. Much harder. There was a moment of panic, subconsciously driven, of "I can't breathe". The resulting spike of adrenaline made it worse before it got better. It was something that had happened to me many times before. The difference, though, as I reached that third landing, was obvious: I had even by the strictest definition done it to myself, and more importantly, I would live to do it again. In all likelihood, in fact, I would live to do it to myself many more times.
dariaphoebe: (redhead)
The hill was empty as I biked up. I'd missed the previous day, the one with hundreds of people. In the quiet of the morning, I remembered scattered moments from the weekend. Of the compliments offered, some felt more deserved than others, even if I was certain none of them were insincere.

The street was covered with powder: apparently the city had salted overnight as a hedge against freezing roads. As I struggled up the hill, I couldn't help but compare myself against the unseen riders. I was slow. I was doing just one hill. But had they needed to worry about spinning out on the salt?

This wasn't a competition, though. Their accomplishments didn't degrade mine. In spite of my seeming inability to push myself to the next level, only a small group of people could even do this.

I can look around me and see so many people doing so much positive with their lives, and yet, I feel like I am at the bounds of what I can do today.

But maybe that's enough, for now. Life isn't a competition.
dariaphoebe: (redhead)
The thing about the usual stiff bike ride up the hill: I'm not the only one to do it, but aside from a special event a week from now, people on that path are few and far between. I have seen other people doing it, and the most recent time, the two outstripped me on the climb. I wondered if they, like me, occasionally had to deal with a driver who wasn't terribly interested in waiting for them to pass on the narrow, hillside streets. I wondered how they dealt, if they were less passive than me. I was already working hard: I wasn't looking for more to do.

On a rarely traveled path, it's inevitable that you'll notice what those few you encounter are up to, and you may make comparisons. I notice others, and looking at what they do I feel pressure to advocate against being repressed, and in reality, as it goes I am not a terribly weak or unsupported person: I'm an ideal candidate to do that. Maybe that pressure is real, maybe I am doing it to myself. But it feels unfair. I'm already working hard. I'm already pushing at my ragged edge.

I heard a car behind me, and despite a toot (mind, not a long one), I kept going. I'd be clear of the narrowest part of the road shortly. He'd just have to wait.

Step 98: Life isn't fair, to you or anyone else. Don't let that stop you from doing the right thing, from doing the thing that really ought to be done.
dariaphoebe: (redhead)
I made it to the top; I was done, at least for this morning. Partway up, I had a momentary scare where I felt I might pass out, where the cold morning air combined with the rich exhaust of a passing truck as I was already short on breath came together and made me lightheaded. Now, in spite of the barely above freezing temperature, I'd have a sweaty ride back down the hill. It was easy to wonder if I was being adequately cautious, in spite of being only marginally closer to my ultimate limits today than any other.

A conversation from the week before popped into my head as I rode down the hill. Being admonished to take care as I parted company with friends, I crassly remarked that I had no intention of dying now. At my end it would be Daria who would be buried, and I wasn't about to let the state impugn upon that with other ideas. The legal necessities were still months in the future. Ergo, today would not be my day.

In spite of problems, I feel as though I have more reason than ever to want to be alive, to want to persevere at life. Of course, it's not that simple. Any morning you awaken could be the final time. But there was more internal pressure at self-preservation than perhaps at times in the past, and I remembered a point a bit over a year ago where I could have easily seen the circumstances at the moment converging in such a way that I stopped caring and let whatever befall me as would transpire without my efforts on my own behalf.

A lot can change in not much time. I am not perfectly executing a plan of care, but I am trying. And now, it's not such a burden to try.

Step 92: You can only meet your goals if you are willing and able to take the steps to get there, so do what you need to do to give yourself that chance.
dariaphoebe: (redhead)
I walked in and dropped my bike bag on the table so I could free hands to go get the usual pot of tea I drank while working. As I did, I brushed the mussed hair out of my face with my other hand: the trip back to the South Side had been windy to the point where I nearly lost my hair ornament in traffic, only retaining it by mashing it down with one hand as I found a place to pull out of Oakland traffic.

A few feet away, a mother and child sat, and both looked up at me briefly as I set my stuff down. I walked back to the counter to order my tea, unfortunately letting my mind wonder if any child would want to grow up like me, or, for that matter, if their parent would want them to.

I remembered, though, on the very last day I was kicking myself that no one would ever want to grow up to be me was I told in the exact words I'd used to doubt myself: "I want to be you when I grow up." Perhaps I didn't look like the screw-up I often felt like, after all. At least, not always.

Step 91: Assuming you'll always be prejudged, especially in the most negative light possible, does you no service.
dariaphoebe: (redhead)
As I reached the base of the hill to start my climb, I yearned for 45 mile-per-hour race down the hill afterwards, culminating at the inevitable screeching halt at a red light where I would see traffic exiting the tunnel to make its morning ingress to the city. The risks of the journey were as manifest as the rewards, but I didn't have time today. I played over the discussion from the previous mornings session about my anxiety and impatience in my head as I climbed.

My anxiety level also climbed, as I heard a vehicle approaching behind me on one of the narrow streets of my journey. As the street widened a bit and he crept around me, I had to suppress a bit of a chuckle lest my already short breath be fully wasted. It was a white van painted someone sloppily with a spray can to include a stripe, and two words. "No fear," it said.

2014 has been hard, probably the hardest year of my life. There have been worries about insurance, money, relationships, and discrimination. But as we talked about anxiety, she observed that my issues resembled the abandonment issues of people she'd seen who'd had a parent leave them. All I could suppose was I'd managed at certain points to become alienated from the people I was closest to, and the effects had lingered. Clearly the fears which were hurting me the most were not new at all. Still, as we again talked about self-validation, I had to suppress the question I had about ending up alone. The goal was to not need to answer that question, and more importantly, meeting the goal meant it was less likely to happen.

I confessed the hill she'd shown me was completely visible to me, and I felt like I was at the bottom, looking up. My other big flaw, my impatience, wasn't helping, she told me. This was an attainable goal. I just needed to continue working on a plan to conquer it.

Step 87: until you learn to work with your flaws, they are doomed to be yours forever.

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