the adventures of me

I took a nap yesterday.  I had a dream that I was in Chicago, where I used to live and where I often returned to visit Michael, one of my closest friends, and where I still go to visit the few remaining friends I have there and to take my little side trips to my home state of Michigan to see the few close relatives who still live there.  I dreamed that I was at a favorite spot of mine on Lake Michigan and was thinking that I was never going to see it again because I was dying, and then I started thinking about Michael, who died in Chicago some years ago.  I was missing him terribly, and I started bawling.  I woke up and I was crying.

Why did I have this dream?  I often wonder how much more time I have to live, and have had thoughts about dying as I try to get back to doing some work again.  Will it wear me out, to the point where I’ll die sooner?  Will I be able to complete any of the projects I start?  What will people think if I just disappear?  Will they feel hurt, betrayed, abandoned, angry?  Will they wonder what happened?  How can I let them know?  (Of course I couldn’t let them know; how could someone else let them know?)  Is it really worth trying to change my life, when I might have so little left?

I get surveys through my email.  I usually earn a few points to try to win something in a sweepstakes, or credits toward some sort of premium.  I haven’t won anything yet, but when you’re poor and have few options for making money, sometimes it seems like anything you can manage to do is worth a try.  Today I did one on health.  In it I was asked if I had ever experienced renal failure.  Michael was in his early thirties when he died, of self-induced kidney failure.

There are these cultural myths that continue to grow, even among people with HIV and AIDS, that say that all you have to do is take the anti-viral medications and you’ll be fine.  Well, Michael was a beautiful Black man, and was taking one of those medications long before those of us in the know knew and before researchers officially figured out that African Americans taking that particular medication were more prone to kidney failure.  He hadn’t even been taking anti-HIV medications that long, and was already on dialysis three times a week.  After a year or so, he felt that he didn’t want to deal with it anymore and had no other medication options.   He was psychologically exhausted from his battle with AIDS, he had had a full and interesting life, and he decided it was his time to go.  So one day in august he called me up and told me that he would be dying within a few weeks.  He was immediately going off of the dialysis, and they projected he would be dead in two to four weeks.  I booked a flight up from San Francisco to say goodbye.

I managed to get to see him twice before he died, although the second time he was not very clear, mentally speaking.  He faded in and out of consciousness.  I was glad to have had that time with him anyway, just lying there in bed with him, holding him, letting him know that it was okay.  I was still in Chicago when he died.  His “domestic partner” and his boyfriend didn’t call me, and wouldn’t answer the door when I went to see him the next morning, so I knew he had gone.  They had each wanted to have him and control him in different ways while he was alive and they saw me as connected to him in a way that they never could be.  When he died they finally had the control that they had always wanted, and could punished me for my closeness to him by barring me from being part of him any longer.

I had taken Michael in when his middle class Black family in the uppity suburbs had thrown him into the street at sixteen years of age because they found out he was gay.  I had found him a place to live, helped him find a job, assisted him in moving along in the transition to adulthood.  We fell out for a number of years because I decided he was being too whorish and using too many drugs as he explored his newly awakened sexuality, and he felt I was being judgemental about his life; I did what I could to try to help him, but I couldn’t bear to witness it.  It all seems to have been a misunderstanding, and ten years later when we reconciled, we learned that each had been secretly in love with the other and we became secret lovers.  Whatever was going on in our lives, when we came together it was sweet, loving support and passionate love-making.

When his domestic partner couldn’t let him move on after they broke up, and when his cold German boyfriend – who Michael couldn’t bring himself to leave because of the Damaged Goods Syndrome so common among people with HIV and AIDS – couldn’t possess him in life in the way he wanted, they took advantage of an opportunity they saw in his death.  They had always resented the special bond that we had; it was more special than they knew, at least consciously, but in death they could rob me of a little piece of him, of a presence in the rituals surrounding the end of his life.  It was a relatively small price for me to pay for them to feel bigger and better, yet I was still sad about it.  In a way it didn’t matter, though, because Michael was already gone.

Maybe I had the dream because of my efforts to get back to work.  Maybe I had the dream because of that survey question.  Maybe I had the dream because Christmas day would have been Michael’s birthday.  And maybe I had the dream because I just haven’t been feeling so well myself lately.

Posted by Me at 01:46 PM | Permalink | Comments (0)

I went to my boyfriend’s mother’s house for Christmas.  She lives outside of Sao Paulo, where he grew up from around age 10 until around age 20.  Several of his siblings and their spouses and children were also there.  His father lives in Bahia.

My boyfriend was talking about how some of them are such hicks.  You wouldn’t know that he grew up poor.  He’s considered Black here, although most people are a shade of brown and he’s more like medium dark brown.  Brazilians like to tell themselves there is no racism here, but it permeates society and in some ways is worse than in the U.S.  But he is manager of a high-end retail store in one of the ritziest neighborhoods in Rio, and makes a decent good living.  He has so much more than his family had when he was growing up.  There were at least 10 children and his parents living in a tiny, three-bedroom shotgun shack.  I’ve been to visit; I’ve seen it.

I grew up relatively poor, too, but we had so much more than most people making the same amount of money.  We had only so much to eat at every meal, but we always had something to eat.  We had hand-me-down clothes, from the sibling next up in line or from relatives.  My step-mother managed the church rummage sale every year, so we always got first pick of what was donated, in exchange for her time and a small donation.  I worked from the time I was 11 years old and paid for many of my own clothes.  I bought myself my first bicycle, my first camera, my first watch, and many of my school supplies.  My step-mother taught us how to mend our own clothes, and we did.  She was a budget whiz, so we managed to do things and have things that others didn’t.

I never wanted to look poor, so I never wore clothes that had holes in them or stains on them.  To this day I won’t do it.  And despite having had a chunk of change in my pocket a few times, like when I was laid off from a job and got a severance package, and when I sold a life insurance policy because I was expected to die soon, I still struggle financially.

Today I survive on government disability payments, but I still don’t look or act poor.  I'm White, so for many people there is an automatic assumption that I'm at least middle class.  I fly around the country and around the world.  I spend almost a month each year visiting my best friend and her two dear daughters (my “nieces”, who are closer to me than most of my blood relatives) and husband and extended family in Connecticut.  I usually manage to find train fare and a place to crash in New York for a few days as well.  I manage to get to other spots, to visit other friends and family, once a year or more; if I am able to cover the airfare, they are usually able to cover everything else.

I spend about half of the year in Rio.  People don’t realize that the cumulative airfare that I pay is cheaper than the cumulative rent I would pay – at least in San Francisco, which is the only home base I have in the U.S. – and that I am dependent upon my boyfriend in Rio for food and shelter most of the time.  My father was brought up in the household of his grandparents, and his father was a college professor, which in those days was rather upper classy.  Manners were also very important to my step-mother, although she too grew up poor.  Our mentality was not that of poor people, but was much more than of the upper middle class despite our financial situation.  That was our family culture.  Besides, I’m smart and have a master’s degree and am fairly well-read.

It’s just like having HIV or AIDS.  (I don’t know if I have AIDS or not, whether or not I was ever officially diagnosed.)  I don’t “look sick” and I don’t have the disfiguring side effects that some people have from the so-called miracle medications, so you wouldn’t know to look at me.  I am pretty skinny and some assume that I am sick as a result, but they don’t know with what, and in fact I have always been quite skinny.  Not that I want people to know, or that I want to look poor, or that I want people to pity me.  But it’s pretty sobering to think about the assumptions that we make about others based on their behavior or appearance, and how far that can be from the truth.

Posted by Me at 08:31 PM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (11)

I was asked by a cab driver last night why we have so many incidents in the U.S. of people going into shopping centers, churches, schools, businesses and so on, just to kill people.  For all of its problems with violence and corruption, Brazil generally doesn’t have incidents like these, where someone kills a bunch of people who are complete strangers to them, apparently just for kicks.

I told him how easy it was to get guns in the U.S.  There is also the fact that when you have a deadly weapon such as a gun handy, it is easy to use it in fit of rage or jealousy or when impaired due to drugs or psychological distress, without thinking twice—before it’s too late.  I thought about all of the violence on television and in video games, both of which are ubiquitous in our culture, and both of which have been shown through extensive research to increase one’s propensity for violence.

Of course, there is also the fact that we have historically been a very violent society.  The U.S. was built on the murderous deaths of countless Native Americans and people of African descent.  There was the lawlessly of the Old West, and the worker’s struggles for fair treatment which were usually met with violence on the part of company owners and managers.  (Violence has met and continues to meet every group in our society as they press for civil rights.)  Then there is our celebrity and money obsessed culture, which influences some to seek fame and fortune through violence.

Does it also relate somehow to our glorification of the individual over society, me over us, whereby what I want (more, more, and still more) outweighs what is best for society as a whole?  As much time as I have spent reading and talking and listening and thinking about this, including over twenty-five years in the social work profession, I couldn’t think of a concise way to respond to him.  It’s a good question, but unfortunately I don’t have a good answer.

Posted by Me at 02:22 PM | Permalink | Comments (0)

I’m in a “sexless marriage”.  As someone who loves sex, I never thought it would be like this.  The thing is that my boyfriend wants sex, and I guess I do, too.  I just don’t want it with him.  He bores me in bed.

First of all, he has very little sexual experience and has lots of hang-ups about his body and body parts, although some of that has diminished with time.  Worst of all is that he is incredibly selfish.  It is all about his getting pleased and his getting off.  His typical invitation to have sex is, “Get me excited” (or the English equivalent, anyway, since he’s speaking in Portuguese).  Don’t get me wrong:  it is not said like a command but as a sweet request.  Nevertheless, it does give you an idea of where his head is at regarding to the whole thing.

He takes little to no initiative to get me excited and get me in the mood, nor to keep me excited and interested during the process.  I have even said to him in the moment things like, “You have hands, too”, or “I have a dick, too”, and so on.  It is a one-way street with him, and I’m not the kind of person who responds well to always having to be the aggressor even if I am usually the “top”.  He seems to want to lie there and be “done” as opposed to being involved in a mutual event.  It’s a turn-off always having to do the work.  It becomes a job, and one that I resent.

Another problem is that I have to repeatedly tell him what I like and don’t like—more what I don’t like.  Why would I have to tell someone the same thing over and over again, for six years, and he still can’t remember it?  It certainly shows a tremendous lack of consciousness about being with ME, as opposed to some stranger or one-time partner.  I end up feeling like I am irrelevant, simply a handy tool he expects to use to get himself off.

It doesn’t help that he doesn’t floss his teeth regularly and sometimes has bad breath and I therefore don’t feel like kissing him.  It doesn’t help that he often has very smelly gas and I lose interest in getting near his behind, which he likes to have stimulated if not penetrated.  It doesn’t help that he waits until I am ready to go to sleep after being exhausted by my day before making his request.  It doesn’t help that I just don’t have energy a lot of times, or that I am often not feeling that great:  the trials and tribulations of having a partner with HIV and HBV, who is seventeen years older, which I am sure is not always fun for him.

We have always had these problems.  They have just grown more bothersome with time.  I mean, who wants to be in a long-term relationship without sex?  Not many people do.  He likes to have sex, and I like to make love.  He likes to cum, and I like to orgasm.  He is in a race to the finish line, and I’m stopping to smell the flowers along the way.  The differences seem pretty basic, and they are not conducive to a good sex life.

Posted by Me at 07:03 PM | Permalink | Comments (0)

It happens every few days or few weeks or few months.  I feel like I can’t stand my boyfriend another minute, and start plotting to move out of the apartment in the middle of the day when he is at work.  This can’t be normal.

This time it started last week, when he told me about an incident at work where he screamed at one of his staff members in front of customers and other staff members.  He works in high-end retail for bathrooms, anything from toilets to fancy tiling to jacuzzis.  This screaming mirrors the same thing he does in our relationship, only it’s not usually screaming.  I call it his growling, and recently I told him he had to keep it limited to once per day.  He could easily do it all day, every day.  He is constantly stressing himself out, getting himself irritated, losing his patience, usually over the most insignificant stuff you could imagine; and then he growls at me.  I’m tired of it, and have been for a long time.  Hence the new rule.

I encouraged him to mend his relationship with the staff member and asked him if he had addressed this behavior in the therapy that he started about a year ago (at my suggestion).  He said that he had, but that he didn’t want to discuss it.  At first I thought he was joking.  He didn't want to discuss with his so-called partner a behavior of his that directly impacts our relationship on a daily basis?  Then it became obvious that he was serious.

The next excuse, a few days later, was that he was tired.  This too mirrors his typical pattern, which had improved somewhat since starting therapy:  he says he’ll discuss something later when in reality he has no intention of discussing it because he avoids discussing anything of consequence all of the time.  Call it conflict avoidance, call it avoidance of intimacy—I don’t care what you call it, really.  What’s important to me is that it is what he does, and it is not what I want in what is supposed to be my primary relationship.

On Saturday I forgot to get something from the drugstore for him, a new hair care product he started using.  When he got home from work and found out, he made his typical comment that I never to do anything for him and never remember his special requests.  This is a man—perhaps “boy” would be more accurate, despite his age—who spends six days a week working, usually ten hours a day, goes to the gym four or five days a week, goes to therapy two times a week and has many social engagements as well, which he attends when he is not glued to the television.  I take care of his dog, the apartment, and almost every single errand associated therewith.  When I forget one thing from time to time, I “never do anything for him” and I "never remember" his special requests.  Not only is it untrue but his comments leave me feeling completely insulted and unvalued.

That night he turned off the television and the living room light and stayed on the couch, where he fell asleep.  I don’t know why he didn’t just go to the bedroom.  When I went to bed shortly thereafter, I called him but he didn’t respond and I left him there and went to bed.  I didn’t feel like having him in bed anyway, where he would want me to pretend that everything was alright.  Sunday morning he was pissy because “I let him sleep on the couch” (another one of his modus operandi:  he takes no responsibility for anything he does or thinks or feels).  He seemed to get over his pissiness as the day wore on.

To top things off, on the way home from the day’s activities we ran into one of the street people with whom I engage from time to time while walking the dog.  This one lives in a park at the end of the beach, and I have seen him and talked with him many times.  He has gone into the favela to buy me some marijuana from time to time, which I share with him.  I like him and trust him, as much as one might like and trust a street person.  I don’t take unnecessary chances and I’m not out to save him.  I’m just being social with someone I happen to see on a regular basis, because that’s the kind of person I am, and sharing a social smoke which we both enjoy.  My boyfriend hates that I talk to street people, and insists it is dangerous.  I think it’s really about his jealousy or possessiveness or internalized racism (they are almost invariably brown or black and so is he, all living in one of the most expensive districts in Rio, which is overwhelmingly white).

The street kid greeted me and I greeted him and we wanted to chat further but I gestured to him to indicate that I couldn't.  I didn’t want to hear more of my boyfriend’s nasty comments.  Too late—he saw my gesture, and off he went.  “I don’t care who you relate to”, followed by “people who associate with delinquents get what they deserve”.  I tried to brush it off, but his nasty comments always get to me anyway.  I didn’t manage to avoid what I had been hoping to avoid so I decided to go back downstairs and speak to the boy anyway.  He had asked me why I hadn't been around and I wanted to give him an explanation:  I was “working” more, not smoking as much marijuana, and wasn't walking the dog as much due to her health problems.  I couldn’t find him.  Apparently he had already gone about his way.

My best friend in Brazil, a world class viola player who is now with one of the symphony orchestras here in Rio, had given me some marijuana a few days prior, and I decided to smoke some of it when I got back to the house to help me relax and sleep.  “Did you get that from your delinquent friends?”  “You mean (the musician, and his partner, an OB/GYN)?” I asked in reply, since they often give me marijuana after I’ve been to their house, and they are hardly delinquents—using them just to make a point, of course.  “No, but they too contribute to your delinquency.”

I’m already fantasizing about my new apartment.  I wonder if I could financially survive here without him.  If not, that would leave me homeless in two countries.  That's a claim not many can make.

Posted by Me at 06:16 PM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (36)

I was telling a friend of mine yesterday about the first time I smoked marijuana with my mother.  I was twenty years old.  My mother disappeared when I was six and I didn’t see her again for another twelve years.  It was the mid-60’s, and my father managed to get custody of all four of us in the divorce.  He must have had something to show in court although from what I have been told, he also did whatever he could to drive my mother off.  Or was it to drive her crazy?  In any case, that’s a matter for a different post.

I had gone down for the summer to live with her.  I had been having various annoying financial setbacks, like care repairs and moving from on-campus to off-campus expenses, etc, and she had been helping me.  It logistically made sense and, frankly, I wanted to get to know my mother better.  She got me a job in a steel mill.  She had already given me her car a year before; she had paid it off and wanted a new one.  I was living with her and the son she had out of wedlock right when she disappeared.  (He was another reason she probably would not have won custody of us back.  She was very briefly married to the boy’s father, but she had changed the little boy’s last name to ours and reclaimed our last name as well when they divorced.)  He was about thirteen years old.

She and I were sitting together in the living room, talking.  I don’t remember where my little brother was although I think he was somewhere in the apartment.  He knew that she smoked marijuana.  I’m thinking that I brought up the subject in my conversation with her.  I don’t remember the details of how it came up, but I remember it was me.  I probably just wanted her to know that I smoked it, because that’s how I am.  I have always liked marijuana since the first time I smoked it at age fourteen.  It has always been my drug of choice and the only one that one could argue I might have abused in any significant way--except some alcohol in college, of course.

My mother assured me that it was no big deal, that she didn’t care whether or not I smoked.  Then she went into her bedroom, not in a dramatic way but after a lull in the conversation stood up from her chair and went into her bedroom.  I mean, it wouldn’t have been an unusual thing for her to do.  Maybe she had left her glasses in there, her coffee cup, a book, something she wanted to show me.

She came out with an ounce of pure shake.  Shake is the little pieces of marijuana leaf that fall from the buds and end up in the bottom of the bag, minus the sticks and seeds, which look a lot like the tobacco you would pull out of a cigarette only green and aromatic.  This was back in the days when we bought marijuana by the ounce or half ounce or quarter ounce not to mention by joint, too, twenty-five or so years ago, but an ounce was generally the largest amount of marijuana that a person might have on hand unless they were planning an enormous party.  She pulled out one of those small, manual bamboo cigarette rolling machines and rolled a fairly thick and perfectly shaped joint of pure shake.

To me it was not strange or unnatural.  She smoked and I smoked, so why wouldn’t we smoke together?  To me it was no different than sharing an occasional cigarette or beer with someone I hung around.  We continued having our nice conversation.   I probably smoked marijuana with my mother another time or two but I can’t recall the specific situations, partly because they were so rare.  My mother didn’t spend a lot of time smoking marijuana privately or with anyone else either.  She simply smoked it from time to time and so she kept it on hand.  She didn’t abuse it; it was no big deal.  In any case, the first time you smoke marijuana with your mother would be the most memorable.

A year later my little brother was crossing a state highway with some of his buddies.  They had gone onto the other side of the highway, one of those fast-moving, four-lane, and two-lanes-in-each-direction kind of state highways with a large median in the middle.  They go through country towns and the suburbs as the suburbs have come to engulf them.  They are abutted by a lot of sub-divisions and new developments.   The friends had crossed the roadway to buy marijuana, and they were on their way back.  A man who had had at least a drink or two came up the incline that was just enough to block a bit of the view until the car was almost upon you, and drove right into them.  My little brother pushed a friend of his out of the path of the car and back onto the shoulder, and he took the hit.   He died of massive brain damage very early the next morning.  As far as I know, my mother has never smoked marijuana since.  That would be enough to make you want to stop--or smoke even more.

Posted by Me at 03:08 PM | Permalink | Comments (0)

i am a member of some online social networking or social support groups, some of which also meet offline for real-time events.  the groups in which i am most active are those that are centered around my health.  i find the groups to be a good way for me to stay informed about issues related to my medical conditions, to make new friends, to get support when i need it and offer support when i can, and to get me out of the house from time to time to participate in activities which i enjoy.

we seem to be much more comfortable these days with intimacy through the wires than i would have ever imagined we would be.  However, i think that this intimacy is sometimes a false one, where we let it all hang out--so to speak--due to a certain physical distance and perhaps anonymity but without the emotional risks, rewards and responsibilities that come from looking each other in the eyes, face to face, as we share whatever it is that is on our minds or in our hearts.  the internet is no substitute for personal contact, i believe, but more an adjunct, and i would prefer to see people use it that way.

at times i have found myself bumping up against those who use the internet more to sort of keep a certain connection or touch base but also to keep a certain distance and hide out.  i mean, have you ever been flamed by someone you don't even know personally, in particular because that individual couldn't be bothered to actually read and digest what you posted since they were so busy being caught up in their own reactions, interpretations or judgements?  there have been times where i have felt very unsafe and unwilling to attend real-time activities because of what had occurred online.

here's to clear communication:  may it live long and prosper; and may more people be willing to open up their mouths, their ears, their eyes, their minds and their hearts, so that we may all feel more truly connected, both on the wires and on the ground.

Posted by Me at 01:34 PM | Permalink | Comments (0)

for some reason i have been dreaming about my family a lot lately.  this is strange for a couple of reasons.

first of all, i don't remember ever dreaming about them before except to have nightmares, and the only nightmares i ever recall have been about my family.  my father and step-mother were emotionally and physically abusive.  there were eight of us who grew up together (not counting the numbers of foster children who were always in our home, at least two at a time if not three or four), but there were five different combinations of parents among us:  child of father and wife #1; children of father and wife #2 (half of the eight, in which i was included, as second born); child of step-mother and husband #1; child of step-mother and husband #2; child of father and step-mother.  my step-mother was not abusive to any of her biological children, nor was my father abusive of them--at least physically.  there were two of us who got most of the honors, my older (biological) brother and i.  the rest of them had it pretty easy--if you can call living with their general craziness and witnessing their behavior toward the two of us "easy".

a nightmare to me is having a dream that seems so real that it is as if i am right back in that situation.  it is invariably something that i don't consciously remember but FEELS like it could have or did; i wake up feeling the weight of being in that household once more:  depressed; trapped; hurt; suffering.  it can take me several hours after getting out of bed to "shake it off".  i have never in my life had any other kind of nightmare, and fortunately, these dreams that are nightmares to me have only come every few years, and less frequently as i aged.

secondly, these dreams over the last few weeks have been frequent and varied.  two were nightmares, one was a pleasant memory of reuniting with my step-mother's extended family, which was the only extended family that we knew after my father married her besides an extremely rare visit from my father's parents and siblings.  in my dream they were aged the 25 or so years since i last saw them, and i was recognizing them and enjoying the reunion.  another was a pleasant dream that included my father and step-mother.  it took me years to get past the ugly memories of life in their household, but there were good times between the abuse and the beatings and your run-of-the-mill slapping around.  other dreams i've forgotten already, since that happens if i don't immediately write them down or review them mentally several times in a row after awaking.

i think dreams mean something, although i have no idea what, and i don't know why i am dreaming so much about my family these days.  if i figure it out, though, i'll let you know.

Posted by Me at 01:45 PM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (7)

it's not that i have disappeared in a cloud of marijuana smoke again.  it's just that i haven't really got into the rhythm of this thing yet.

i am planning on posting on a more regular basis.  i am planning on keeping notes throughout the day, on topics that strike me, things i may want to write about, so that instead of thinking about it and not getting around to it, i can be more prepared when i sit down to the computer.  i am planning on promoting my blog on directories of blogging sites, too.  i just haven't got into the rhythm yet, nor have i gone to those sites to get myself listed.

i have, however, been busy with some other work development activities, as well as doctor's appointments.  i hope that you haven't been worried about me.

meanwhile, what to write about?  the current u.s. presidential campaign?  global warming?  the omaha school shooting?  my family worries about my spending time in rio, but shit happens in the u.s. that doesn't happen here, that's for sure.  americans like to be smug about our country and our culture, and ignore the fact that it too is one of the most violent cultures on the planet.  never mind what we did to the native americans.  never mind what we did to the people of african descent who survived the trip over.  never mind that the right of american citizens to protect themselves against a potentially dictatorial government (the bush administration and master of ceremonies dick cheney, anyone?) has been construed to mean that anyone and everyone can carry a gun, and shoot up people doing their holiday shopping, or saying their sunday prayers, or pursuing their education - and so on.  never mind all of that history.  in rio, where police officers are paid what would be the equivalent in u.s. society of a busboy's wages, a supposedly sinister danger lurks.  you would be trying to rob the relatively well-off tourists who come here, too, if you couldn't afford to live in a decent neighborhood or feed your family on what the government pays you to risk your life every minute of every day - which is what police officers in free societies all over the world do.  and brazil, for all of its tremendous problems, is quite free.

i promise to get my act together here soon, and decide exactly what my next entry will be about.  meanwhile, happy holidays to all, and to all a good night.

Posted by Me at 01:46 AM | Permalink | Comments (0)