Too Much To Declare

And he's not wasting time. He's announced - not a new foreign policy, but a fresh, radical approach to Unborn Troublemakers.

It could solve all Britain's problems.

Tomorrow's potential troublemakers can be identified even before they are born, Tony Blair has suggested.

Mr Blair said it was possible to spot the families whose circumstances made it likely their children would grow up to be a "menace to society".

He's not proposing abortion - after all, Blair is a closet Catholic.  Perhaps new orphanages?  Maybe the babies' mothers will be able to work there - a touch of humanity?  I expect it will be down to the Company running the scheme to decide.  Google, British Aerospace, South West Trains, or a caring organisation like Marks and Spencer?

But I could have the wrong idea.  After all, why should people deemed unsuitable parents be allowed to breed when there offspring are likely to cause such trouble?  Compulsory steralisation (again, not very Catholic, although the Jesuits may have around this one, especially if the babies aren't Christian)?  The criminalising of unauthorised sex?

"You have been found guilty of being likely to concieve an illegal child while drunk"

This, too, could be a winner for private enterprise.  The computer system for registration, the surveillance, the new drugs to help you keep the law, the courses to help you get exemption...

Meanwhile...  Do you know anyone, however young, who might eventually have kids who might be a menace to society?

Do you know  a Prime Minister in need of..?  well, complete the sentence

It's easy, sometimes, for outsiders to think of the Catholic Church as a nice, cuddly institution.  After all, hasn't the Pope said some good things about the evil of war, and the need for a fair settlement in Palestine?

Hmmm.

Cardinal Trujillo, President of the Vatican's Council for the Family (but like all Catholic priests a bachelor) has said the Church will excommunicate the medical team who performed the first ever legal abortion in Bogata, Columbia - the termination of an eight-week pregnancy of an 11 year old girl who had been raped by her stepfather.  The man has admitted raping the girl since she was seven years old.

Cardinal Trujillo, himself a Columbian though now based in Rome, threatened excommunication to "relatives, politicians and lawmakers (who were) protaganists in this abominable crime"

The abominable crime is of course abortion, not child-rape.  Abortion, but only in extremely limited, extreme circumstances like this one, has just been legalised in Columbia.  An estimated 300,000 illegal abortions are carried out in the country each year. The Catholic Church regards the use of any contraception as a grevious sin.

A Columbian senator commented:
"I would hope they would also excommunicate priests when they rape boys and girls."

But they don't.  And the rapist-stepfather will be allowed to remain a member of the church, too.  He will be able to go on receiving the sacrament of Holy Communion, if he wishes.  The doctor and nurses, in the church's eyes, will be effectively condemned to Hell - for stopping a 11 year old rape and incest victim becoming a mother at 12.

Just in case you were in doubt about the Vatican's priorities.

Perhaps one of the reasons I felt so lazy earlier in the day (see below) was that I had an afternoon appointment at the local hospital, to see a surgeon about an operation to mend my umbical hernia.  Nerves affect me in the strangest ways.

(A few weeks back, someone on this site kindly gave me a www.address of a site which details alternative treatments.  I'm certainly going to check that out long before I go under the NHS aneasthetic and knife)

(The hernia isn't life-threatening.  Operating won't help my IBS.  There's nothing the hospital thinks it can do about that.)

My name was called 70 minutes after the appointed time. I overheard a phone conversation; the surgeon was running late - because of surgery or a long lunch, I have no way of knowing.  Eventually he arrived with a colleague and a briefcase, supremely confident.  Of course I wasn't first in the queue.  The other patients waited, expecting to wait, knowing their role - to be patient.  The Receptionist looked as if she had missed several daily doses of anti-depressants.

Over the last eighteen months, I have several consultations with surgeons at this hospital - never the same guy.  This has been one of the problems - getting the whole truth out of any one of them. 

But today's surgeon I had seen before - about six months ago - in the day surgery ward.  An arrogant, facetious guy. I was about to have the hernia operation then, but I walked out - partly because they were not sure if they had a bed for me into to stay in overnight and I had no one to look after me at home, after the aneasthetic.

I also worked out because I hated the surgeon's atttitude, and the ward was barely large than two phone boxes (and I don't mean Tardis).  An entire extended family stood comforting their father a bed length away during my examination.

"Are you often short of breath?" the surgeon asked today.

"Only when I come to this hospital!" which is more or less true.  My blood pressure goes up as well when I'm there.

In life, I'm thriving.  When I have accupuncture or a cranial massage, I feel positive about my health.  But with the NHS, I feel a victim of decline management.

Today I'm being very lazy.  Not ill, but can't-be-bothered, in a good way.  After writing this, I'll probably return to bed.

Shocking!  I've always thought Worry and Work-Work were twins programmed into my genes.

"I've always thought..."  Hey, ho.  Whatever.  For now, I can't be bothered to think.

Maybe I'm about to make a creative breakthrough!

Maybe not.

I feel angry - creatively angry.  I realise that if my novel is to work the plot has got to take a new, even darker twist.  It's almost frightening, but I know I can write it.

Meanwhile, all I can come up with to write here is wry, easy going.  It doesn't fit my mood. 

Instead, I have plundered my archive again, and rewritten a story I first posted in mid April, about a nasty boy I was school with, who appears to have turned out to be nasty man...

A long post - yes.  But stick with it.  There's a twist at the end/

I'll call him Aesop Greaves. It is, or almost, his real name.  Several boys I was at school with had pretentious names like that.  Ben Aesop Greaves.

Aesop Greaves was tall, ugly, active in sports, a bully, stupid. He called all foreigners wogs, jews yids, blacks niggers, manual workers oiks - but, then, many of my fellow public schoolboys did the same.  For Public School, read private, fee paying, boys only boarding school.  We were a privileged lot.

Like his freinds, Aesop Greaves despised anyone with an original thought in their heads. They were Pseuds - for Psuedo Intellectual.

Surprisingly, Aesop Greaves seemed to like me, a fully paid up pseudo.  I knew he was a creep but a big guy too, best to keep on my side.

We slept in the same dormitory.  One evening before Lights Out, he walked over to my bed, put his hand under the sheet, and grabbed my limp cock. At first I was speechless.

He grinned.  His hand squeezed hard, pulling up and down.

"Please stop!" To my horror, my cock was growing.

"Nice and stiff!"

I should explain that, aged sixteen (and for years afterwards) the only sexual experiences I'd had were with boys (apart from a teacher groping me briefly at my previous boarding school).  But with boys I fancied, with sweet, cheeky smiles.  Boys with whom I felt an emotional connection. Boys who liked me. Boys I liked.

Aesop Greaves squeezed my cock so tight it hurt.  Nothing sensual about it.  Yet, shamefully, I was getting excited. 

The bitter tasting, self loathing shame.  I felt helpless, confused, disgusted - but, despite this, aroused.

He pumped my prick - fast faster, faster, vicious. Another boy passes the end of the bed, assuming I'm having a wonderful time.

"This is not what I want!" I cried out.  Or maybe not. So many years have passed. Now I want to turn myself into a little bit of a hero.

I do know I'm held back as long as I could. I tried to fight the pleasure - automatic, inescapable, my pure body response, stripped of my willpower. Stripped of lust - I had an  orgasm. A sort of self-treason. Self-rape.

We never spoke about it.  A-G often talked, leeringly, about girls.

After school, he went into the Army.  Years later, I checked each time a soldier was killed in Northern Ireland.  I wanted to read his name.

Then, in April this year, after written the first draft of this post, I googled him - not expecting to track him down.

But I did. I could barely believe what I read.

In 1970, about the time I was checking to see if he had died in Ireland,  someone had murdered Aesop-Greaves in Oman.

A-G had been mercenary, working for the Sultan and British interests. Fighting for the Empire, as we had been taught we should, at school.  But he had not been killed in battle - but shot dead by one of his own soldiers. Just the two of them in a tent.  The soldier, an Omani, disappeared into the desert and never stood trial.

The stiff-upper lip account on a Military Memoirs website says that the soldier took offence at one of Captain AG's orders. I can't help thinking it was an order to have sex.

Unlike me, the soldier had a gun.  And courage.

How many others were there, who didn't?

For some reason (probably hypnosis) I have presently got Google set as my www Home Page. (Please, somebody, give me a better suggestion)

And, each day it gives me three quotations to think, smile or throw up about.  Here is one of todays:

If you trust Google more than your doctor then maybe it's time to switch doctors
 

But how do I switch from Google?  Not just as a Search Engine, but a tracker of my life?

It's nice to see that BCUK's Top Blog List is at last becoming more accurate.  (New Readers will not recognise that this is an example of Alec Weston's clumsy irony)

Come on, send me a Comment to say I'm a conceited bastard.  That will help!

TOO MUCH TO DECLARE has managed to crack the code - which has nothing to do with Visitor or Pageview numbers. Or has it?

Blog early, and blog often.

Someone has cheekily added to be "user tag list" on my Profile Page:  "apple of his mother's eye"

Outrageous!

Whoever did this should own up and explain immediately.

I am a bad apple because:

1. She thinks I look like my father.
2. I haven't produced any grandchildren for her.
3. I won't tell her what I'm writing about (sex, mainly), or much about what I do with my life.
4. Unlike my sister, I'm not remotely famous.
5. I'm not a Catholic. (Though this is hardly my fault, see previous posts, tags etc)

 
However, it is true, I suppose that my mum hasn't much choice of apples.

Uggh!  (this post is written with tongue in cheek)

(another golden oldie post, from over six moths ago, edited; let's face it, not many of us read each other's blog from the start)

I'll call her Jane. She was English, tall, thin, a museum curator I think. We met in the eighties, when I was working in Glasgow.

She sent me a valentine's card - with a phone number scribbled underneath - of a cemetray, a sewage farm or a drugs helpline I can't remember.  Can’t remember either how I learnt she was the one who sent it.  Probably I recognised her aggressive sense of humour

One evening we ended up at her flat in a middle class enclave south of the Gorbals. A besit, really, with an enormous iron bed. There were cats everywhere. Jane avoided telling me how many there were. Avoidence seemed to be her way of flirting.

Jane wanted me to stay the night in bed with her. She encouraged me to fondle her body - but only to a degree. Moaning, then clicking her teeth. Touch above or below her breasts - but move towards them and she would turn away, or lift one of the cats so it fell on the blanket between us. I could touch her stomach, her lower but not her upper thighs. She would make encouraging noises, do some provocative caressing of her own then brush my hand away. And the cats appeared to be trained to back up her pervisity. Sometimes she'd picked one up and caress it.

I endured seven hours of this. No sleep, no sex - or genuine affection, but as soon as I turned my back to her she cuddled up and gave me hope, so the whole process started again. It was almost balletic - Jane, me and the cats. A ballet danced to Stockhausen.

A couple of weeks later, Jane invited me to a party at her flat. I arrived late. There were only men there, and Jane, and the cats. Awkward silences. My 7 fellow male guests seemed strange in a way I couldn't at first quite define. Self important (for secret reasons) but at the same time... We all related to Jane and barely to each other.

Then it dawned on me. All eight of us had spent atleast one night in bed with Jane. An excruciatingly frustrating wrestle-dance with cats. And I'm pretty sure that each the other seven believed they were the only one. They were all manoevring to be the last one to leave. This time, each one was convinced he knew what he had done wrong before. This time, all 7 of them knew everything would be different.

I phoned for and caught a taxi before the final play-off. Perhaps I'm wrong, and of all them, on their own, followed me shortly afterwards, and by midnight Jane only had her pussies for company.

I hated Google Ads.  That's why I bought a Pro Account.

In the last few days (did it take me a long time, dah?) I noticed the no one on BCUK had ads breaking up their posts any more.  So, when did this happen? (please could someone read this post and tell me)

A sensible decision by Blog.co.uk.  So, can I have my Pro money back?

According to reports today, Anthony Blair is determined to set the tone of New Labour for the 10 years after he resigns, fantasising, no doubt, that he can be the Hidden Hand inside Gordon Brown's glove puppet, when Brown takes over.

The man's demented - loo-la well beyond the realms of Thatcher, who aware of her own swivel eyes.  David Cameron's the only person who dreams of imitating Blair - and even he won't want his hero's fingers up his arse, straight guy that he is.

We all know Blair is impervious to advice or criticism, unless it comes from business or his right wing heros.  Whatever we say, he won't listen.  In his dreams he rules forever.  Disagreeing with people he despises gives Blair the impression he is a man of principle.

So - let's give him the silent treatment.  All of us, from Gordon Brown down to his second assistant chauffeur.  From the highest Civil Servant to the dinners lady he meets on a photo-op.  No journalist should ask any more questions.  Silent demonstrations all over Britain - but no one should even jeer.  Turn your back if he tries to shake hands, chat amongst yourselves. Deny him the oxygen of the attention he needs to survive.

Has anyone got a better idea?  The last thing we need is his martyrdom.

Well, consciously.

According to an article in the Guardian today, consciousness may be an illusion.  We may think we are in control of our actions, but the rest of us is, in reality, taking all the decisions without help from our 'mind'.

If often feels like that to me.  I once wrote a chapter in a long-abandoned novel about the hero's mind as a vast, unweildy bureacracy, trying to get control of all the impulses and messages rushing through his body.  Is it a matter of his mind ordering a body party what to do - or rather inventing rationalisations for doing it?

In this instance, the hero (or his body parts and id) chose to have sex with his wife's best friend, and to hell with the consequencies.

Scientists have now conducted a more sober, laboratory study.  The subjects were wired up to brain wave monitor (or whatever) and to wiggle a little figure at a random moment.

It was found that they all 'decided' to move their finger after the part of the brain that does the finger-moving work had sprung into action.  In other words, their consciousness was fooling them it was in control, but in truth we all work on an instinctive basis, like animals.

Keep up at the back.

Does this give computers an eventual advantage?  After they 'know' they have no consciousness.  That is to say, they 'know' nothing. They never waste energy playing Hamlet.

On the other hand, they haven't got a an unconscious, either - and that could put us humans permanently ahead.  It appears that our unconscious still exists and takes most of our decisions, inspired or foolish, whatever.

Another reason not to feel guilty about anything.

Check out the article
http://education.guardian.co.uk/higher/research/improbable/story/0,,1858809,00.html

 

 

This evening, when I've got better things to do, a micro-relaunch of TOO MUCH TO DECLARE.

I wanted to change my strapline, and thought of asking fellow-bloggers to suggest a new phrase that described this blog with snappy wit.  Then, what the hell, I got all arrogant...

Also, I've added a Stat Reader, open to everyone's inspection. god knows why. It's only just started working -  yours may be the first dot on the map! I chose a base figure (ie number of visitors up until today) of the Visitor Numbers recorded by Blog.co.uk, less about 10%.  Probably still way over the top.

A reminder that, despite the headlines, horrors continue in Iraq. This story is copied from the Al-Jareerah.net English language website, which, contrary to received Western opinion, is truthful and remarkably objective:

Carnage damaging Iraqi psyche
Friday 25 August 2006, 12:53 Makka Time, 9:53 GMT

Scenes of the unending death and destruction in Iraq are leaving a negative imprint on the nation's psyche, officials say. Nuri al-Maliki, Iraq's prime minister, has gone as far as warning television crews against filming the devastation.

The Baghdad municipality has commissioned cleanup crews to handle the mutilated bodies that are increasing daily.

"They've gotten used to this," said Amir Ali, spokesman for Baghdad's municipal government, as he described the attitude of the cleanup crews who earn as little as $5 a day. "It's daily routine now to deal with these horrific scenes. All of Baghdad has witnessed destruction."

Clearing up the mess
After an explosion, the civil defence workers who extinguish fires are the first to arrive. They also provide first aid to survivors and carry off the dead.

Then the street cleaners arrive, many of whom have not had any training in dealing with the aftermath of a bombing site.

Ammar Adnan, who supervises a cleanup crew, said: "Usually at that point, most of the blood is gone. If not, well, we have to deal with it. We go in, do it quick and leave."

Adnan, who works part-time to pay for his engineering education at Baghdad University and help his parents with expenses, says there is another reason to work fast: Fighters sometimes plant a second bomb to kill and maim police and cleaners who rush to the scene.

Lieutenant-Colonel Qassim Majid, spokesman for the civil defence in eastern Baghdad, said four of his team have been killed and three injured in the past two months in follow-on explosions.

The trained civil defence teams have better equipment and vehicles than in the days of Saddam Hussein. But security is worse now, and the frequency of attacks has strained resources, Majid said. "Previously, we used to deal with a fire once a week. Now we deal with at least three explosions a day."

His unit has about 800 workers and is responsible for nearly three quarters of Baghdad. Even a medium-size explosion requires at least 30 civil defence workers, he said.

A lasting imprint
Scattered body parts are collected by rescue teams and packed in a bag that is carried by ambulance to a hospital. Hospital officials say the parts are kept in refrigerators until enough are collected for burial.

However, workers at some medical facilities and the Baghdad mortuary have complained that bits of flesh sometimes clog drain pipes.

Ali, the city government spokesman, confirmed that they do not get training or psychological counselling for coping with the carnage, but he said all Iraqis have had to come to grips with it.

"The psyche of all Iraqis now is disturbed. Whether you work for the health ministry, defence ministry or wherever," he said. "Even if you don't have to deal with it because it's your job, you see it on the street every day."
- Agencies

Usually, every Saturday, I visit my mother, almost two hours away on public transport.  Tomorrow I'm not going, because she is spending a long weekend with my sister in Wiltshire.

I feel sad as well as relieved.  My mother will worry that she will die before she sees me again, next Saturday.  Worry about that and many other things. 

She never stops worrying.

Once I didn't go to see her for ten years.

We'd had a quarrel, but she never understood what it was about.

It was about her obsessive worrying.  I needed to lead my own life, without her anxiety on her back.

Writing this has made me even sadder.

Four months to Christmas.

Oh, shit.

This you might have loved if you'd read it at the time - originally published 28th March 2006. Or might well have ignored it. Why post it again now?     I have reasons

Thirty three years ago, when libertarian socialism seemed to have a future, and feminism and mind altering drugs might have been about to change the world, and the U.S. was losing in Vietnam...

I organised a Tea Dance at the Singapore Raffles Hotel. It was all for the sake of a TV documentary. I had to have my hair cut militray and wear a linen suit.

Dances at teatime were one of the things the Brits, still ruling the world, did in Singapore to pass the time - before the Japanese invaded in 1942. Once or twice, when Noel Coward came to town, he sung with the band. "Mad Dogs and Englishmen Gou Out in the Midday Sun.

Thirty years after the Fall of Singapore, I was out there with an Austrtalian film crew, making a documentray for the BBC about what the Britsh empire used to be like. My boss the "producer-director" was a meglomaniac perfectionist whose name I cant now even find on google.

I was instructed to find all the old Brits who had come back to Singapore. I was expected to find someone to film, for free, two British naval ships which had been sunk in 1942 without a trace. Underwater (I succedded, but my director didn't think the pictures were strong enough to use).

The Tea Dance may have been my idea but it gave me a lot of work to do. For example tracking down a pre-war band of Indian and malay musicians. One day, half joking, I suggested we got Noel Coward to sing at the dance. T (it's quicker to type if I give him a name) thought it a great idea. Naturally, I was delegated to bring it about.

The problem was that Noel Coward (nearing the end of his life) now lived in the West Indies. I He agreed to come if we could fly him and his companion first class. I arranged "free" tickets from Heathrow eastwards (we were meant to show the ailine's logo) but out budget had no funds left for the Atlantic leg, and the Exectutive Producer in London refused to cough up extra money. So Noel never came for a last hurrah. And T, my producer, went into a sulk.

The show must go on. The Tea Dance in the gardens of the most famous hotel in the world. The afternoon arrived - and the ban. But the ex-pat ~Brits were slow to show up - and the ones that did refused to dance. (Meanwhile the cameraman, fancying one the middle aged women who had arrived, got me to pimp for him, as it were) We couldn't afford proper lights, T had plans for ambitious shots, our film stock was slow, and the sun looked as if it were about to set. In Singapore it does that fast.

Still no one was dancing... They needed alcohol, lots of alcohol, and fast. The waiters ignored me, carrying on as if this was any afternoon... I was desperate to get their attention, but the only way I knew to do it was to treat them like inferior beings. Then, the most respected Brit of all arrived and did it for me. Hailing a waiter over fifty, he shouted "BOY!" After that, everything began to run smoothly. Two months later I resigned from the BBC, imagining I could live my life untainted.

BOY! That's how it used to be, when Britain ruled most of the world

 

 

Plato believed that the material world is no more than a series of shadows from the Ideal World, which for reasons I can't remember is lurking in a cave.

There's an ideal chair, table, Man [he didn't go much for women]...  And presumably, an ideal cave, as well.

It may seem a wonky idea.  But, while writing this morning, I began to wonder if, in a sense, I believed it were true.

It's as if I'm trying to create something that's already there. ["There must be an absolutely appropriate word to use here.  A correct plot twist, a right length, an inevitable ending"]  Somewhere, in a Greek island cavern, there must be a perfect Low Life Games by Alec Weston, already spell-corrected.  Waiting for me to assemble in shadow form.

Ridiculous, naturally.

Two British Students were thrown of a flight from Malaga to Manchester last week, because some of the passengers on the Monarch Airways Flight thought the two were acting suspiciously.

Suspicious?  Apparently they sat on their own, checked their watches too often, and spoke in a foreign language which could have been Arabic.

And, at the time, the only public figures to protest about this "passenger mutiny" were two Asian MPs.

So this is me, one white honky, adding his name to the list. And providing a link to today's Guardian interview with the two guys.

http://www.guardian.co.uk/airlines/story/0,,1857081,00.html

 

... is one of these posts I write when I'm really low, and then delete the next morning.
    I'm feeling so lonely

That is, when I'm really low, and then delete the next morning.
        I'm feeling so lonely

Stupid, isn't it?

 (All's well after yesterday's dental extraction, thanks to sympathetic Comments here, and an almost unprecedented eight hours sleep)

There are a few standard things people ask me when they hear I'm novelist (sometimes I don't tell them straight away that I haven't had a novel published yet).  Where do you get you ideas from?  Are you writing about your own life?  Have you got a publisher yet?  Will it be in bookshops by Christmas?

Answers (1) My imagination (2) No, but every character has a piece of me in them (3) No. (4) Will you have learnt to fly by then?

More annoying than any of these is:  Do you discipline yourself to write every day, like a professional novelist?

It's a myth that all writers turn out a set number of words every day.  Some do - but many, like me, find it a waste of time.  Some days I would write drivel, other days I would be in grave danger of going off at a tangent - beautiful, well drafted, intriguing, perhaps, but irrelevant to the story in hand.  And some days I beat myself up for being dry of inspiration.

I manage to write something here almost every day.  But that can be trivial, short, at a tangent to anything I have written before.  In fact, it can be anything.  And I can delete if I later want to.  No big deal.

For me, creative writing has little to do with self discipline - or rather, the teeth-grinding kind that I'm only too good at.  Cliche or not, creativity comes from the heart.

At the moment, two 'teeth-grinding' demons are holding me back.  One is that this novel (already dubbed a novella by professionals who read it) is going to be turn out to be too short.  I'm told that this deosn't matter, that minimalism is all the rage, but I don't quite believe it.  Yet too much verbosity and plot-twists and secondary characters and witty, irrelevant dialogue would be the death of this story

The second is that I must finish quickly, soon.  My money's running out (though not as fast as the demon tells me).  I've got no Plan B.  It's not that I'm so naive to think this novel will make me a fortune, but I do have the confidence, misplaced perhaps (certainly misplaced today) that it will lead to other things.

So I've got to finish.  By the end of next month - no the end of this!  And, as soon as I fall into this state of mind, I'm blocked from writing a word.

Tooth removed today. Traumatic. Aches a bit now. Exhausted a lot. No other news. No coherent thoughts.  Brain not up to speed. In fact, it's stopped.

Is there anyone out there who truthfully has no regrets about something important they have or haven't done in their life?

Only asking.

Don't mean head banging guilty, necessarily.  But maybe "why didn't I have the courage to do that?" or "if only I had realised..."

Or not.

Isn't a life lived without regrets likely to be a life lived rather insensitively? I love Edith Piaf, but.

I've been doing a life-rethink, and I realise I have been concealing from myself a big regret.... More later, maybe. 

Lina lay on her front, watching the valley below.  The breeze caught her tee shirt, the sun warmed her jeans.  But she wasn't here to feel sensual.  Her mission was to get the better of Formic.  The Most Wanted. The Prime Suspect.  Lina's lover for the last three weeks.

She could see him below, leaping to cross a stream -  splashing into the water, falling short.  Sometimes he could be so clumsy!  If Formic turned away now, Lina could shoot him.  The horrifying thought thrilled her unexpectedly.  Of course, if she killed him, it would be over for good.

Anyway, Inspector Norton had given orders that Formic should be taken alive.  Inspector Alvin Norton, the other man in Lina's life.  So far, their contempt for each other had been Platonic. It shouldn't be so complicated.

Suddenly,

.