Performancing Metrics


What do you do if your friends don’t like your boyfriend?


On a recent happy hour adventure (Perl√©, the awesome new champagne bar in downtown Pittsburgh), I witnessed an uncomfortable encounter with a couple of old broads in the ladies’ room (OMG I’M PEEING!). OK, OK, “old” is relative, but this is how I make my 35-year-old self feel better among women in my age group.

Two friends were gabbing on about how they didn’t like another friend’s new boyfriend. The woman, topic of a heated discussion, was not in attendance in said restroom. The lovely new couple (and entourage of girlfriends… what the fuck, awkward!), however, was seated near us in the lounge.

They called him names and said dirty things about his personality (by the indignant tone of their conversation, it appeared it was their first time meeting him — and frankly, he DID sound like an ass, by their standards and vocabulary). But they carried on as if all was normal while on the Fifth Wheel Date.

I wondered if these “friends” shared in private with their female counterpart their disdain of the new romance. I guess, I HOPE that they would. But these women were no less catty than the 20-something drunk chicks on Carson Street, so I suppose hoping for any sort of maturity (aside from aging hands and sunspots) from them deserved a backwards-heavy, disappearing eye roll.

But… I’VE BEEN HERE — on both sides. I have told friends when I thought a man was no good (which never does anything for the friendship, mind you, so long as said relationship continues), and I’ve been told when a guy was a total jerk or complete weirdo. See: 10SB, HG Shady McShadester, Claymation… and strange Chocolate-covered Strawberry Guy. Need I go on?

God damn, that flood of memories was NOT needed this early in the morning. Man, now I wonder if I lost friends over my current relationship. My stomach hurts…

What would you do if your friends told you that they didn’t like your boyfriend? Would you respect them for telling you? Hate them for being bitches (or jealous, natch, because the likelihood of these other two women being single was 92%)? Or take into consideration that THE GUY YOU ARE DATING MIGHT BE A COMPLETE ASSHOLE.


My life: the last 10 years, by way of home address

My life: the last 10 years, by way of home address

I had the recent (super fun and mind-bending) task of attempting to remember Every Single Address that I’ve lived at for the last 10 years, along with the people who resided WITH me in those locations, for a background check (yes, I’m getting the checks on my background for a new job opp). It was your enviable trip down Memory Lane or some such… otherwise known as: an embarrassing display of admitting (in writing) how many men I’ve lived with.

Three, for what it’s worth. I don’t know, is that embarrassing? I flinched every time I hate to write in “M” for male. And it actually took me longer than necessary to remember: a) if I ever lived with my high school sweetheart (after graduation, of course); and, upon remembering the answer was “no”, wondering: b) why?; and c) has it been over 10 years since we stopped dating? Short answer: yes.

HSS did eventually propose the idea of new living arrangements (with several dozen flowers outside my wonderful rented townhouse-like apartment in… PARMA, of all forsaken Cleveland suburbs) at a time when he seemingly got his shit together about relationships (or at least, one with me), only for me to be one foot on a plane, ready to relocate to Myrtle Beach, South Carolina (which never happened because of meeting The First Guy I Would Eventually Live With, aka: The Fiance). Or, as some would tell it: HSS went away to Virginia Beach on an All-Guys vacation, and I didn’t hear from him for an entire week, so I changed my phone number, so he would never attempt contacting me again. The end of an almost-six-year, turbulent relationship. How you like that airplane metaphor, ya jerk?

Back to the numbers: I lived with three men in my life, with whom I was romantically involved (the other male roommates do not count, and for purposes of this writing exercise were beyond the 10-year benchmark. Also, HOW THE FUCK did a decade pass by that fast?):
The Fiance
and my current, AB.

The address count was 12, I think. Is that a lot of moving? Thank you, Gypsy 20s: it was.

Sidenote: I had to Google myself on one of those people search types of websites because I couldn’t remember addresses from before my condo, circa 5-6 years ago. I probably should have made a copy of those addresses, incase this comes up again…

Me, googling.

And if I forgot an address — or worse, someone — then WOO BOY, we might have to start talking about implementing some brain functioning exercises.

How many addresses or significant-others-you-lived-with have YOU had over the last 10 years?




Eh, Valentine’s Day. RANT TIME.

I don’t celebrate it — and not because I’m some anti-establishment, anti-greeting card company or anti-lovey-dovey holidays… um, person — but I guess I just don’t GET it. What’s to celebrate? Date Night. Blow jobs. Maybe a vase of flowers. All the stuff you should be experiencing as one-half (or one-third, I don’t judge) of a couple on a regular basis. Not just because February 14th told you so. And if you don’t like blow jobs, well maybe then you should reconsider your relationship. THAT GOES FOR BOTH OF YOU.

You probably should start by holding hands once in a while.

And yes, you’re also probably doing it wrong.

In Ohio, I was “blessed” with having two of these romantical holidays — each anchored both ends of the calendar year. Sweetest Day made my eyes roll much more than V-Day (VD Day has probably been done before, no? Desperate Single Girls Celebration, FTW). Perhaps because of the stupidity of couples (or is it just women?) relying on false hope that limo rides to fancy restaurants in October equate love in the fullest, for all eternity and in times of ultimatums. I have mentioned before how important it is for Pennsylvanians NOT to take ownership of this inane celebration. I mean, it’s not even on the same DAY every year! Friends and coworkers, it’s even worse when a woman is not even in a relationship and her entire day of work is focused on the lasting merits of Relationship With Mystery Man X because OMG YOU WEREN’T DELIVERED 18 BALLOONS ALONG WITH A SINGING BANANA!

Because THAT GUY is a stalker. Not a boyfriend.

AB is on the same page with me, thankfully. At least about the holiday stuff. Oh, I wish I could get him on board with skipping Christmas… I’m probably not the most romantic person in the world. But this year, I might cook dinner and fuck it up JUST BECAUSE I CARE. Because when I dated a guy that EXPECTED me to gift him something just because HE did something “special” for me, well, that’s a sure way to guilt trip somebody into buying you a shit-ton of easter candy — that you will never eat — to make up for “that time” your girlfriend didn’t reciprocate a slippers-and-chocolate combo. Oh, how in the world did I stretch that relationship out as far as it did?! No blow jobs. That’s how.

And where the fuck are those slipper socks? Because I’m going to burn them in my wood stove tonight in effigy…


{sunday funny} The Ex


Anyone can relate… of this I AM CERTAIN.

Shoebox Blog, via Geeks Are Sexy.


{holiday spirit} …and a kick in the nuts!

{holiday spirit} …and a kick in the nuts!

I chuckled at this holiday gift guide: Gifts For Someone You’re Planning to Dump (aka: What to Buy Your Soon-to-be-Ex) – {Jezebel}. Passive-aggressive never worked for anyone.

I never intentionally sought out gift ideas for people I didn’t want to be with (I suppose I should have taken my own hint when I didn’t get 10SB something for Valentine’s Day)… and most of my former break-ups took place on/around New Year’s or Fourth of July (for SERIOUS).

Have you ever been in this situation (on either side)? What was the worst “I’m Going to Dump You Soon” gift you received?

The only one that comes to mind is when dating HG Shady McShadester. That asshole took me all the way to Phoenix for my Christmas “gift” to celebrate New Year’s and the Buckeyes Fiesta Bowl. So what: he made me sit in coach, while he stretched out in first class; and let’s not forget that time he was hitting on another girl while his friend occupied me at the other side of the bar; or that time his friend claimed it his attempt at having a three-way; or his general, skeevey-boyfriend tendencies — those are all a WHOLE OTHER ISSUE OF DATING — I got to visit my sister and niece at no dollar sign off my bank account. Although I did slip in the bathtub pretty hard during that trip; that was borderline disastrous.

Gah, just thinking of that loser makes me FULL ON regret not asking for AB’s number eight months prior. I need to take off my Grinch hat, like, now…

End note: if you receive something this Christmas that you’d rather unload than have remind you of his stupid, ill-timed ass, might I suggest Ex-Boyfriend Jewelry?


{musical interlude} hey, baby, that’s our song!


You know that saying about smell being tied to memory? Boy, does music seemingly pull out some wonky emotions for me. I got a flash of horrific nostalgic memory upon listening to Boyz II Men’s Twenty (courtesy of Rdio) this afternoon. Seriously, I heard “I Shoulda Lied” and I wanted to go back in time and kick all my ex-boyfriends in the throat. Ew.

HSS brought me to the Boyz II Men concert when we were all “little.” I don’t remember the year — maybe I was 19 or 20. Well, we only went because of BABYFACE. Our song: “When Can I See You Again?” Why? Because it made sense that we started a relationship that can only be described as “incredibly long distanced when you’re in high school with no car.” And we wrote letters because e-mail didn’t exist then either. And holy shit, I’m old.

Side note: this was totally the last song Babyface played during that concert, and Tevin Campbell totally opened on that bill. HILARIOUS. And awesome.

Reversing time, this silly Mr. Big song reminds me of that time in 9th grade when I finally got some sense of “popularity” (and less picked-on loser-dom) because my junior high crush, Greg whats-his-name, danced with me at the dance. Or was it 8th grade? Regardless, HOW THE HELL DO YOU SLOW DANCE TO THIS SONG?
But you’ll sing along anyways because I know you know all the words…

And if you read this blog a lot since 2003, you know that I had a terrible dating history in my 20s. Which, obviously, brings about some moody music.

The Fiance played a lot of Sarah McLachlan and Dido during our first few months of dating (and then some, I suppose). And I loved that first Dido album. Now: RUINED. Hearing anything from either one — including our song “Thank You” — makes me want to stab eardrums and puke. Hey, it’s kinda Exorcist-like, which is a barrage of metaphors for ex-boyfriend bullshit.
I initially typed “baggage” which tells you something else.

Gah. *puke*

I cannot listen to Coldplay’s La Vida because I just downloaded the song at the height of my demise with 10SB. And as life certainly likes to fuck with me, I remember hearing it en route of him MOVING MY SHIT ACROSS TOWN… back to my self-inhabited condo. Dick. Hearing it makes me want to punch things. Including him, if I ever see him again.
Wow, how long can you hold onto anger? Answer: FOREVER.

In equally disturbing break-up premonitions, I was sincerely listening to a lot of Fiona Apple towards the end of my “relationship” with L. “Never is a Promise” is incredibly sad and somehow predicted exactly what I would be going through. And damn… hearing it now reminds me of that pain. But it could have been much worse: I could have ended up with a cheating baseball player who wasn’t mature enough to face his life choices. Or give me back my shit. Seven years later, and all I want is my fucking suede boots back.

AB & I have a song too, naturally. He picked it; he’s cute. Really, when it came to him, I never really thought about those silly relationship things anymore. Is that weird? No, it’s simple, is what it is (even if I didn’t make it easy for him to date me). Hence, this Gaelic Storm tune makes perfect sense, with our long courting period (of me turning him down) and especially because our anniversary falls on St. Patrick’s Day.
And, it makes me happy.

Enjoy this trip down musical memory lane? Do you have a song that defines your current relationship, as well as your formers ones?


{something borrowed} sharing the toilet with the boyfriend

{something borrowed} sharing the toilet with the boyfriend

Keep your toothbrush away from mine!

OCD, hypochondriac, germo-phobe… pick one: I’m them all. I have adult issues with cleanliness and matters-of-the-stomach when it comes to food phobias. The majority of my obsessive-compulsive cleaning streaks ceased when we adopted cats. Because let’s be serious, OMG HAIR EVERYWHERE! I’m almost comfortable even with cleaning gunk out of the eyes.


So, this recent story from Allure about sharing a boyfriend’s products (NOT ONE YOU LIVE WITH, MIND YOU) made me make that muscle-strained “ew” face. Being that AB & I have been living together for almost three years, we’ve stopped buying separate tubes of toothpaste, and I even share his shampoo after derby practices… BUT I’m sorry, it’s completely gross to use another man’s deodorant.

Years ago, I shared a toothbrush (once) when I visited SSD for a weekend when I forgot mine — not PURPOSELY forgetting — but, yes even though we swapped spit on numerous occasions, there’s something inherently grosser about male toothbrushes. And armpit hair. I cannot…


Side, random note: do you and your partner pee with the door open?

Also, when you “purposely forget” your toiletry items when you stay at your boyfriend’s, remember that your period can start at any time, especially when you least expect it. True story. I’m pretty sure this and the Toothbrush Incident of 2008 was the same awesome weekend. I win.

For what it’s worth, I agree with the writer about men’s razors… and the smell of Irish Spring. I dated a guy once who used it (the soap), and I bought myself a package after we separated. Not because I wanted to smell the darn man anymore, but OMG that smell in the morning is downright fabulous. 10,000 better than “zest-fully” awakening. But I cannot share soap. Even the boyfriend and I have different shower puffs (there’s seriously 18 bottles of stuff in our shower). And when we have guests over, I can totally tell when they’ve used my bar, and I have to shave the exterior layers of it off before I can use it.

Wearing rubber gloves, of course.

The other side of this story — that the article so cleverly “forgot” to mention — is when you “purposely forget” your stuff when staying at your dude’s place, you run less a risk of losing out on hundreds of dollars worth of products, clothes and the best platform suede boots known to exist when he decides to Pancake your ass and never give your shit back. Just saying.

At least always keep a tampon on you.

{ Products I Purposely Forget When Staying at the Boyfriend’s}

Photo credit: Psu4 via flickr


We had a conversation about… Hanson.


Yes, that would be Hanson, the band… err, the singers, rather. What the hell do you call them? But I think this conversation was really about sex. Or crossing things off your bucket list.

I’m not certain.

Mel: Hanson is on Dancing With the Stars. Don’t you want to watch it?
(mind you, we don’t have cable, and cannot get the local ABC affiliate channel in at our apartment)
AB: {blank stare}
Mel: Didn’t you purposely sleep with a Hanson fan?
AB: She was Australian.
Mel: {blank stare}
AB: You know — two birds, one stone.
Mel: {laughing} I don’t even know what that means. In this case, anyway.
AB: I add stuff to my list, as I do ‘em.

But seriously, I heard NKOTB was on the night after?! I need to HULU this shit.


Oh, the dreamy places you’ll go!

Oh, the dreamy places you’ll go!



I had a dream last night where someone asked me how many people I’ve been in love with. In my dream, I answered, “Five.”

I really hate dreams about ex-boyfriends.

While seemingly a fair number (I remember even in my subconscious state having to think about it), there are obvious “mutations” of what constitutes “love” depending on a variety of factors. Even if the words were never said to one another. For instance, what I considered to be “in love” ten years ago is quite different as I see it today. Also, I completely and whole-heartedly agree that you can love more than one person at the same time. What can I say; my heart is just that big. And so is my penis. Seriously, wanna see it?

If that number were true, however, my “five” would be (in no particular order, but giving my CURRENT boyfriend the number #1 position only seems… properly credited):

1. AB
2. HSS
3. The Fiance
4. SSD
5. 10SB

My, I’ll be pissed at myself (or sure to hear about it) if there is someone I forgot to be included as part of this list.

AB: Enough said, right? I mean, I only talk about him ALL THE TIME. And how incredible of a person he is — and how incredible of a person he’s made ME. Without a doubt, the truest and most sincere of true loves to be had. I’m very lucky.

HSS: The High School Sweetheart. The “first love.” The volatile, young, passionate, ANGRY, kill-for-him kind of love. We dated (on-and-off) for… about six years. Somewhere in my aging, I actually forgot how long we dated. Since the summer before our senior year in high school (yes, he was my senior prom date), until some time in my early 20s. If you had a high school boyfriend, you KNOW how difficult it is to let this person go — physically and emotionally. The truth is (regardless of the cheating vengeance between the two of us), we grew apart, and it was hard for both of us to admit it. I’m happy to call him my friend today — and see him (finally) in a healthy relationship with someone who seemingly complements him well.

The Fiance: And just as soon as you finally realize you need to let someone go, another comes into the picture to remind you of what love is all about. I admit, it’s still strange to imagine myself with a FIANCE. I moved in with this guy three weeks after meeting him, and I wasn’t more sure of ANYTHING in my life. We endured a long, committed, healthy and open relationship for almost three years. But about a year in, a tragedy occurred that caused an emotional rift — and eventual distance. It was never really the same. The engagement happened long after we fell slowly apart, separated, I moved out, and we once again reconnected. At the time, and almost immediately, engagement seemed to be the right thing to do (and to prove to others that we were SERIOUS this time). As you know, this is NO reason to get engaged, let alone get married. We fell apart again soon after (and I had to move my stuff out AGAIN).

SSD was the acronym for his job (followed by the word “dude”). I never told him that I loved him, although I had a good friend who made SURE he knew after our emotionally-charged, messy, I-want-to-drive-off-a-bridge “break up”… and I think I sent him a letter. Anyways, we had no labels; we never talked about the status of the relationship — we only had fun. We were long distance, so every time we were together, only the best of memories were created. And in the moment, I was all for it. It was… perfect. Especially, in that I could “keep” my own life. That is, until it was over. And then I realized how big a part he was of it. And it was DEVASTATING. Especially considering that I spent probably one year too many in something that was never even defined. The details are still fuzzy to me, but he didn’t think I was serious about him (I probably wasn’t IN THEORY, but in my heart, I was), and those feelings were much of how I felt about HIM. Ain’t that a recipe for dating disaster?

To be honest, I struggled back-and-forth at my inclusion of 10SB. I was in a miserable part of life, and looking to cling to anything (or anyone, rather) who gave me the chance — and the right amount of attention. It was a horrible, horrible relationship, based on the mind of a woman (ahem, me) who just was not in a good or confident place in her life. That’s not to discount “what we had” (even though, in my mind, he’s still a total, irrational… dick), but I certainly learned a lot from that experience. Most of all, about what I want and need in a compatible partnership. That, sadly, was just not it.

How many LOVES would you put on your list?

Photo credit: rustman, courtesy of flickr.


Ex-ploration or Ex-ploitation?


There was a time when I used to write about my funny or OMG-that-didn’t-really-happen stories related to ex-boyfriends. When AB & I got together, I stopped. It was a combination of being too happy to dwell in my past misery and a part of letting the past be the past. But I think I might start to share some of those soap operas again, as I feel those memories have a part in shaping how I feel — and who I am both individually and attached — while in a long-term relationship. Plus, some shit is just plain hilarious and needs to be told.

Also, it’s not because I’m suddenly UNhappy, but it was prompted by a stupid irrational argument last night between AB & I, which no doubt caused my “I need an extra hour” deep sleep dream I had this morning about my high school boyfriend, HSS (high school sweetheart). In real life, HSS & I fought with the fury of 100 feral cats, which resulted in five-plus-years of on-and-off-again instability (but oh, first love!). When we were dating, I was ALWAYS mad — it didn’t help that he did a lot of dirty, shitty things that consistently pissed me off. So I yelled. A lot. I threw things and broke things. And I also hit him (once even giving him a well-deserved bloody nose in a club). I even got so mad one afternoon that I flushed an emerald ring he bought me down the toilet. Yes, I was nothing but a Drama Queen and a Total Bitch in one very small, 95-pound package (but whatever, I could box you and punch your lights out — or so my internal bad-assedness told me).

I knew I had anger issues, but they really didn’t subside until he was gone. Or at least until I was ready and able to move on from him emotionally (which took a LONG time, even overlapping several other relationships, mind you).

In my dream though, we both changed — how telling.

And then some scary Russian mobsters were in our Las Vegas suite, asking me for a million dollars to repay them for… something I don’t remember. Even though I was staying on the sixth floor. Or was it the ninth?! Therein lied the rest of my dream, attempting to escape from these two thugs — running up-and-down staircases, not being able to find my room number as I ran down the halls.

What a freaking metaphor.

Back to last night’s… ahem, “discussion.” I sincerely hate when anyone feels they need to “talk down to me” as though I’m unintelligent. I might not be the most logical of thinkers — and because I think differently than you, does not mean I need the conversation “simplified.” Point being, I really DON’T like to be angry. But I also will not let it go if someone is essentially calling me stupid. Which in my mind, was exactly what he was doing. So when AB made a generality after that argument last night that I am “always angry,” my shit hit the roof even worse. And I could just feel my blood boiling. I made him take it back, of course, but I couldn’t shake that emotion for anything. I like to think sometimes that I’ve come a long way since HSS. I’m in, by all accounts, a life partnership with someone for whom I care deeply. But holy hell, watch out for my wrath when I get angry enough that I start losing my voice.

Oh, and of COURSE it was a sex dream.



Kind of a “would you rather” question.


Ooh-ooh! A great post from Heiss Chic today over at Technical Support.

I’m curious what you think (and please join in the conversation over at her blog too!): on a day when you look exceptionally good, would you rather run into your ex-boyfriend or your boyfriend’s ex?

As I commented on her blog that I could give two shits about my boyfriend’s exes (if you can even call them that… herein referred to as Temporary Bar Skanks). But running into my ex? I best be looking my best. And that means hair, make-up, clothes, weight… AND having my hotter-than-him boyfriend on my arm. HELL-O!

Your thoughts?


What’s new?


I caught up with my ex — The Fiance — yesterday. And no, it’s not some big secret that we conversed. AB knows we’re friends.

“What’s new?” he asked, in request of status from our last conversation a couple of months ago.

Everything is JUST as fantastic as the last time we spoke – downtown living arrangements, permanent awesome boyfriend placement, upcoming Caribbean travel plans, same good-paying job in real estate, complacent-yet-straddling-the-line-of-Black-Sheep familial issues… I couldn’t even really share that I was doing Taebo because that workout routine is not new to him (I’m sure we shared similar nightmares of Billy Blanks).

I struggle to think spontaneously! He had a bomb (which I’ll keep off Internets for his privacy). But are questions as such just rhetorical or a true well-intended curiosity?

I can’t believe I actually had to think what was New With Me. Lameness.

1. I tried a new fish last night: yellowtail. This is only my second time eating sushi, of which the afterlife should be entirely comprised, you know, if I make it to one of the good parts (and you know, my digestive system allows me to enjoy some shellfish). AB had everything but the fish to make our own, but decided to stop into Sapporo {map} after a hectic work day. All four types were delicious! Of course, I have a lot left to learn about sushi, but I know the day after having some, I want more. MORE! And I am completely in love with anything spiced mayo. Of COURSE.

2. I tried a new cookie recipe this week. These apple-cranberry oatmeal cookies may very well might be my most favorite of cookie ever baked. EVER. For serious.

3. I’m listening to some new-to-me Bob Seger, courtesy of the greatest music pal ever, Addicted to Vinyl. Seger further reinforces that I need to have a piano in my next living arrangement. Even if it’s just an iPhone app. But not really. Back to Seger, “Days When the Rain Would Come” is holy fucking shit amazing to listen. Consider it on 1,063 loop rotations.

4. *sigh* I think I need another new hairdresser. When I called last week to make an appointment, she was out of the salon for a couple days for “personal reasons.” She still has yet to call me back for a potential haircut on Friday. Looks as though I will be rocking some bad-ass split ends (and extraordinarily long hair) for the holidays. I really, really liked my haircut last time. Dammit.

5. I might jump on board with adding a bunch of new recipes and cooking techniques to my resolutions list. AB cooks for us almost every night, which I love, but I love trying to cook/make new things (and subsequently fucking them up gloriously!). Be that as it may, spaghetti squash is on the menu tonight. AB is not joining us for dinner. OMG, I can fart at home!

6. Remember all that running I used to do? You know, the activity I gave up the second my witches’ tits started freezing over? Yeah… I’m considering giving the half-marathon another Ol’ College Try. See, I’ll be 33 in May, and that’s what still-hot-in-perfect-condition 33-year-olds do. Right? Or do they become strippers? I always confuse the two.

7. I did this super horrible spray tanning at home last weekend with a new product. At application, it was running fast down my arms and chest, and there was no doubt I was getting streaky with it. I wasn’t even complete with spraying my abs on before it stained my hand (yes, with a spray can, wtf?). And that can ran out before my fracking back was even. So, for 5 hours I resembled an aborigine, and when I showered — HOLY CRAP! It looked fantastic! Not much streaking (although a tiny bit uneven on my back — but not noticeable). Three days of awesome coverage before fading. Billy Blanks could not even paint these perfect abs. OK, he had probably a quarter of the credit. All that being said, I still like the fake tan courtesy of Neutrogena (airbrush) and Banana Boat (aerosol). If only I could afford Optima Sun Lab on a weekly basis.

Yeah, so these would all probably bore my ex-non-husband to laughing tears, like, OMG, you are lameness and what happened to befriending porn stars and when are you going to Amsterdam again and your cooking totally sucks.

Man, I had a bit more to talk about when I was buying hookers. It’s like endlessly talking about children to someone without spawn.

Perhaps the Caribbean sells those things. The hookers, not the spawn, of course.

So, Readers, what’s new? And what stories do you share with your exes — good, bad, ugly, same? Do you make up shit? I don’t talk to my exes, Crazy Woman!

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