no heart line, no sun line, no life line, no need (major wip)

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no heart line, no sun line, no life line, no need (major wip)

Post by mabel pines on 3/22/2013, 8:29 am

and you, you are an angel, and that's why you pray. and i am an ass, and that's why i bray.

your name is vinyl record and, to be honest, you're not quite sure why. well, the record part is obvious; that was your mother's surname, and she never married, so now it's yours. but seriously, vinyl, like what the f*ck even? did your mother legally change her name or something just so she could make that joke?

well, you don't know why your name is vinyl record, but it is, and that's that. sure, you could change it, but you're not going to because you damn well like your name, thank you very much. it's not as strange as something like, oh, damaris or something (even though it used to be the hundredth most popular name in the u.s.a., you've still never met anyone named damaris). but vinyl isn't something that's common, and you like that. you like that your different. it makes you special.

your mother used to play old records around the house when you were young, and you think maybe that has something to do with it. but then again, who knows. you never thought to ask when you had the chance, so you'll just chalk it up to your mother really liking records or something.

sure, maybe for a bit you wanted to be an emily or a dorothy or maybe even citra (so maybe it's not normal, but it's still so cool). you used to want to be normal, just like every other girl in your class. and you tried, and maybe you did a good job, but the difference between all the girls in your class and you is that you were pretending and they were not.

you don't want to be normal now. you want to be extraordinary, you want to be mindblowing, all that sh!t. you're pretty sure it won't happen, but your name gives you a head start on it. and like, it wouldn't even be a stage name or anything. it'd be like bert mccracken from the used. or something like that, you don't know.

you almost take offence at the thought that you would have a nickname. sure, when you were little you went by vin and vinny or whatever, but not now. no, now is not a time for nicknames. now is a time for showing people how brutal you are because your name is freaking vinyl record. people would kill for a name like that, dammit, and it's yours, so you sure as hell aren't going to hide behind stupid nicknames no matter what anyone says.

you're female, always have been and always will be.

you've never had much time to put thought into dating or romance, but gender has never made any difference to you. you've always craved warmth and attention and love, have always wanted it, even though it's not something you try to think about. love isn't something you were made for. you weren't made for warmth or romance, the only attention you'd get is in the back of a car from a man nearing forty who told his wife he had to stay out late working.

you try not to think about love anymore, but whenever thoughts of a future by the fire wrapped in someone's arms, the person's gender always changes. it's never a constant thing - sometimes it's a girl, sometimes it's a boy, sometimes you don't know what their gender is but the feeling is the same - cared for. important, like you matter, as if that's not such a ridiculous thought.

the gender's not important to you, but there's something that is, and you're not sure if it's a real thing or if you're just a prude. you've never liked sex, and maybe it's got something to do with years of doing whatever it meant to get money. you've never wanted it, never wanted to be touched like that. but everyone knows you can't have a relationship if you aren't sleeping together, there's a reason they call it "making love", right? you want love, but you don't want sex, and you can't help feeling broken somehow, like there's something important missing, like despite wanting and wishing and hoping in the dead of night, where no one can see, you weren't made out for love.

you weren't. it's okay. you'll be fine alone. you always have been.

Date of Birth:
you haven't celebrated your birthday in so long that at times you almost forget, but you were born on the first of december in nineteen ninety four (that's 1 dec. 1994 for those of you who are lazy).

you haven't got a present or cake since your mom left - too many kids in foster care for anyone to remember while you were there, everyone too busy to even get to know you when you weren't. you don't think there's a single person alive who knows your birthday. maybe your dad, but he probably never cared enough about you to remember, anyway.

Summer or Year Rounder:
you've been staying at camp year round because you couldn't stand new york city any longer. you'd rather die than go back, even though you don't particularly like camp. like, it's nice. you have a bed and food to eat and it's warm. there's no worrying about bills even though you're way too young to be doing that, which is like, great. but still, you're expected to interact with people, which is just. no. nope, stop right there. social interaction is not cool.

but then again, neither is living in an apartment that's not even worth sh!t with mice living in the walls and no electricity. like, half of the time you didn't even have running water, and getting food was difficult, and you're pretty sure the guy only let you rent the place because he thought you were hot. which was creepy, because we was at least forty, and while mr. d is kind of creepy, at least he doesn't seem to expect you to sleep with him, so that's something, right?

Years at Camp:
you've been at camp for about a year or so, you think. you aren't quite sure. it seemed like the past few months were more of a haze than anything. there was something that was...well, it wasn't the end of the world, but it did really suck and it stung like a b!tch, too. you know breaking down is not the way you're supposed to deal with things, but it's what you did.

but, yeah, you've been here for a year. it's easier at camp, and you're pretty sure you'll stay here even after you're eighteen. like, food and shelter and clothes are provided for you and it's actually safe, no threat of monsters tracking you down and trying to kill you or anything. it's great. the food is good (and free, too), and you don't have to work any sh!t jobs and get a fake id. you don't have to live off of cheap beer like you used to because it's actually somewhat filling. there's no demented ice cream truck jingle at three in the morning on the dot every single day (even though you're pretty sure that it doesn't sell ice cream).

you've stayed at camp for a year because it's easy. it's easy and it's better than home and even though you hate almost everyone here you think you're going to stay as a mentor once you turn nineteen. your not sure what you'd do; maybe you'd help teach sword fighting, be the hard teacher at it.

Mortal Family:
  • mother: your mortal parent is a woman named daliah record. and daliah was a pretty woman, albeit a very tired one. you'd never expect a child like you to come from a woman who worked so hard yet enjoyed every last bit of life. it made sense when you were younger; you understood why this woman was your mother and where your similarities lay.

    you can't really remember her all that well, but you do remember that she was kind and too young to be a mother and too sad for someone so young. but she tried hard at everything, at being happy and keeping the irs off her ass and keeping food on the table.

    your mother was kind and you don't know how she could have given birth to someone like you, but you like to think that maybe you have some of that niceness in you, somewhere. you like to believe that maybe you could be the person who would try and try and try until you finally succeeded.

    your mother was kind and you don't understand why she left you when you were only ten years old, but she did. you don't know her reasoning, you're not sure if you'd have the patience to ask her why if you'd ever met her. you'd probably punch her in the face, and she'd probably forgive you in a second and sit you down with a cup of ice cream and explain why it was rude, using her, 'i'm-not-mad-at-you-but-you-should-be-sorry' voice, which was far worse than her 'i'm-so-mad-at-you-i-could-punch-the-wall' voice.

    your mother was kind, but she still left, and for that you can never forgive her. you woke up in the middle of the night because you heard her bustling around in the kitchen. when you asked why she was up she said that she couldn't sleep, and you didn't mention her bags by the door.

    your mother left and you realized she wasn't so kind. you were only ten and all she left was a stack of fifty dollar bills, a can of pepper spray, your seven year old brother, and a note that read, "don't tell anyone."

    you thought your mother was kind, but she still left and for that you must never forgive her.

  • brother: you had a brother, three years younger than you and just as weirdly named. his name was rhythm, and you can't remember a thing about the day he was born except the feeling that there was a balloon in your chest, like you'd float up to the ceiling if there weren't something to tether you down to the ground. he was small and wrinkly and kind of weird looking, but he was yours.

    you had a brother and his name was just as weird as yours, but it gave you something in common, gave you a sense of closeness you couldn't see in any of the other children. you would spend hours with him while he was young, playing peek-a-boo and tickling him and watching television together and staying up too late, falling asleep in the same bed. you never found a friend like your brother.

    when you were ten years old, standing alone in the kitchen and staring at a note, you had a brother. you had a brother to take care of and a job to do, so you both set about minding your own business until you couldn't anymore, until you needed help. until you made the stupid decision to make pancakes and burned your damn hand.

    once upon a time, you were a girl with a younger brother who was your best friend in the entire world, but at ten you were torn apart, forced to go to separate orphanages because they had a boy's home and a girl's home but not one for both, and you haven't had a brother since then.

    you haven't had a friend since then, really.

God Parent:
your god parent is hypnos and he left you nothing. he didn't tell your mother about camp because she would have sent you there if she knew. he didn't leave you any weapons, nothing to protect yourself. he's more like you than you are like your mother, but that's not something you think about.

you're more like hypnos than you are your mother because the first time you went to olympus he simply gave you a once over before telling you that you were a mistake. he didn't give you a gift at christmas when everyone else got one, all of the other campers and even his kids. he didn't give you any powers and he didn't give you any gifts and for the longest time you had to fight off monsters with your fists and your wit.

you're more like hypnos that you are your mother and that should make you sad, but it doesn't.

Place of Birth/Hometown:
you can't remember the name of your hometown but you know it was somewhere in georgia. nowhere, georgia, that's what you call it. it was one of those nowhere towns. it was small, where the houses were close to the stores and the stores were close to the school and the school was close to the houses, too. everyone went to the same school; it was impossible to not know someone.

you remember the sad little park you used to play at; there were always millions of kids playing, but they always stayed away from you as if they knew how you'd turn out. you don't like to think that, though, so you tell yourself it was because your clothes were always two sizes too big and you had to use big belts to hold them up, which was probably their reason for doing it, too.

you can remember the old lady who lived across the street. she came over to have tea with your mother on sundays, even though the table was small and crammed into the kitchen. the teacups were chipped and the biscuits stale, and the tea tasted just like water (you know this because you'd always sneak a sip and a bite when your mother walked the old lady to the door).

you can remember how easy it was to leave, and that in itself must have meant something.

Last Residence:
the last place you lived was a small apartment in new york city. it was suffocating and there were rats in the walls and the locks were easy to pick, but it was a place to live and that was enough. you hadn't been asking for much, really; just a roof and four walls. it wasn't a place you saw yourself living in when you were young, but that didn't matter. you weren't asking for somewhere homey when you bought it, you just wanted a place to live.

it was inhabited by sketchy people, but you fit in just fine. you didn't have any friends outside of work. hell, you didn't have any friends at work. it was lonely, but it was safe. as safe as new york city could get, anyways.

you're fairly certain the place was killing you slowly, anyway, walls creeping closer every second you weren't looking until there'd be no room left for life, just you and those damn walls, thin and water stained and so suffocating.

you're american, but it's not a fact you're proud of. you're not really proud to be a human, honestly, but nobody ever even asked you in the first place. which isn't fair, you feel as if you should have been able to choose your species if not your parents. you just wished you had some say in things, in how you turned out and how they will. but you don't, and you won't, and life goes on as usual.

you've got a bit of everywhere in your accent, but your southern accent shows the most. you're surprised it's still there, even after all this time. you don't sound too southern, you don't think, there's just this southern twang that shows up in some of your words, like lord and god, and you still say words like "y'all" and "ain't" and you leave off the g's in words ending in ing.

you still sound like a good little southern girl and you hate it, but you've made your amends with that. you're not the type of person to put on a fake accent or force their voice to change, because that'd take too much effort that you haven't got. you've always been crap at remembering things, and remembering to hold up a fake accent would be too much for your crap memory, anyway.

you don't have any pets, shouldn't be trusted with animals. it's a fact you know and a fact those around you should know, because you spectacularly mess up everything else in your life, so why would animals be any different?

honestly, you shudder to think what would happen if you had a pet. it would end up dead, and in some horrible, cruel way. jumped out the window and run over by a bus without you noticing, probably. splat on the pavement and thump under the bus and it's poor soul gone up to heaven. but the woman down the hall (or was it above yours?) always said that animals couldn't go to heaven, so maybe not.

no, you don't, won't, can't have a pet, for it would end up dead and be all your fault.

Role-playing Example:

Life Before CHB:
the man who lived down the hall always stared at you longer than comfortable, and you're pretty sure he watched you through the peep-hole in his door. the woman who lived in the room above yours would always scream at exactly 3:09 in the morning, and no one knows why. the man who lives on floor three is an enthusiastic butcher

you're not quite sure how to describe yourself, but if there's one thing you know it's that you aren't beautiful. you've got bruises under your eyes from one too many nights up, and your cheeks cave in. your ribs stick out and your limbs are skinny and there's something missing from your eyes, and you've heard it to be light. your eyes lack light and luster and many people say you look to be hopeless, and hard, and sometimes even soulless from that fortune teller who tried to pull you aside when you were ambling through a fair.

you're not something people like to look at, and it's a fact you know. your clothes are old, almost threadbare, and there's just something about you that screams not normal stay away don't look don't let her see you staring move along hurry on your way. that's the way it's always been and that's the way it'll always be, you're pretty sure.

there's nothing cute or girly or pleasing about your appearance, nothing you can see. you wear cheap eyeliner thick around your eyes and forget to take it off before bed, which only adds to the shadows under your eyes. you haven't got freckles or dimples or anything nice about you, and it's something you've always had to deal with and it's something you've come to accept. you aren't extraordinary, but you aren't ordinary, either.

Skin Tone:
you're skin is pale from living in the city so long and not spending too much time outdoors. you've never been able to tan, you just burn, turning red as a tomato, so you always cover yourself in sunscreen before you go outside. and your skin bruises spectacularly, not going away for weeks, sometimes even months. and the bruises are fine, make people stay away.

but sometimes they worry instead of stay away, they try and get involved and ask questions and try to "help", thinking you're some poor girl who's been abused my her boyfriend or something of the sort. and the sentiment is kind, truly; you might be able to appreciate it, even. but when they call up the cops and they start to look into you, well, you can't find it in you to be grateful that people care, because what's the point in that if it's just going to ruin everything?

Eye Color:
you're eyes are green, a bright, vibrant green that you hate, because it makes you look approachable. brown eyes would have been preferable; they don't typically look so bright and shining, but of course that's what you got stuck with.

there was a time when the colour suited you, but you haven't been that person for many years. that was back when you were vinyl record the child, excitable and joyful and happy. but you're not happy anymore, and you hate your green eyes and everything they stand for.

Hair Color:
your hair is a dull brown, always tangled and dirty looking. you used to put effort into making it look nice, but you've given up now. there's no point in working with something that refuses to be worked with, so why put the effort into something that won't work?

besides, you don't have anyone to impress. you don't have anyone you want to impress. if you wanted to impress people then you'd be a performer, but you don't. it's your hair, who cares what you do with it, right?

Hair Length:
your hair used to be cut short, right around your ears, because at least then you could manage it. it wasn't so hard to keep it looking presentable. but for some reason you've let it grow out to your shoulders, let it get to a point where you can barely manage it. which helps with the whole image of making people leave you alone, because why would they want to talk to someone when they looked like they didn't even bother with brushing your hair this morning?

you're about as tall as any other woman in the united states, about five feet and six inches tall. it's possible the only normal thing about out, and you're not sure how you feel about that. your height has always been average, average, average, while the rest of you is just strange. you can deal with normality, most of the time, but it can be irritating when your whole life you've been marked as different and then there's this one thing that's just normal.

you don't weigh much, only about 100 or 110 pounds. it leaves you looking hollow and thin and empty. you're kind of lanky, bones sticking out and cheeks hollow. it's unhealthy and you know it, can tell from the disapproving looks you get from the children asclepius as you walk by. and you've been trying to put more weight on, trying to eat healthy meals at the mess hall and have a well balanced diet, but you're just not hungry, just want to take a few small bites of your food and go. it's been over a year and you're still like this, don't know how to get out of the habit of eating a small amount.

you're used to eating so little because everything cost so much, and you didn't exactly have money to get the biggest or healthiest meals. and it's not like you have to pay for housing and food at camp, but sometimes you still feel as if you do, because you can't get out of the habit of getting as little as possible. you suppose there's something wrong with you, but, well, that's not exactly news, is it?

Body Type:
you're skinny, bones sticking out at awkward and uncomfortable angles. your hips jut out and your collarbones are prominent and you elbows are bony. your ribs are visible and there have been skinny blonde girls in the city who give you dirty looks, as if to say, how dare you be skinnier than me. it's hard to sleep because if you lie on your stomach, it hurts, but if you lie on your side, there's this pressure on your hips, and you've never liked sleeping on your back.

you've got a knife with a six inch long blade, double bladed and made of celestial bronze. you suppose a sword would be easier to use, but your knife has served you well. you know how to use it and it's just familiar, so you stick with it. it's easier than trying to switch to a sword, and you don't fancy the idea of searching for a sword that's balanced for you.

you keep a can of pepper spray in your pocket, too, just to be safe. you'd rather not be unprepared if you face an idiot or a creep in the mortal world. you don't have to use it much, because you've been facing monsters lately, not mortals, but you figure it's better to be safe than sorry.

you don't wear armor. it just adds unnecessary bulk, and you like to travel light. of course, if you're in a situation where you need to wear armor, you'll wear it. but you haven't got your own, just use the armor that camp provides for things like capture the flag or other games. (you only participate to improve your skills, don't care about the game)

besides, it's not as if you're going to have armor on you all the time in the real world. you won't have a bulletproof vest on or protection other than your clothes out in the mortal world, so you feel it's best to learn to protect yourself without it.

you haven't got any powers, and for this reason you don't feel you like you owe him anything. he never gave you anything, so you won't give him anything. hypnos is your father and you'll allow him to take that title, but you don't owe him anything past that.

you've got many talents, but only a few of them are actually things that could be useful in a career. well, not really; you can play the guitar, kind of, but it's mostly just messing around. you never formally learned, just played a few melodies from books you found and tried to play songs by ear. it's not as if you'd actually want to be a musician, it's not something you could ever do. you sing like a dying horse and you wouldn't be able to get along with someone long enough to make a career.

and, well, that ends the list of things you can do that could have any value in the mortal world. you can lie, pretend you're okay when you're not, which don't quite qualify as acting, but it's the best you can do. you're not one for productions or getting up on a stage in front of people, so you could never be an actress. but you can pretend, that's for sure, and lying is almost second nature to you. you used to never lie, but, well, it became something as necessary as breathing for your survival. you can come up with a lie in a split second and tell it easily through your teeth without leaving a single hint that you're lying.

you can keep things in the shadows from those who are closest, which, well, that's basically no one. nobody would ever be close enough to you that they'd find out about you, about your mother and the things that truly matter to you. no, you wouldn't let anyone get that close, because if they were that close to you, then you could get hurt. and, well, that's the point in all of it, isn't it? everything you've done was so you wouldn't get hurt, so you could help keep yourself intact.

possibly the best of your talents is disappearing, leaving without a trace. it's something you've got down to a science now, you could probably do it in your sleep you've done it so many times. it's like breathing, something you just consciously do before you leave anywhere. you set everything back the way it was, everything in the correct spot and everything you brought with you, then thrown away a few blocks away, if it can be thrown away. it's simple, it's part of life, it's just what you do.



  • Addict - One who is addicted to a compulsive activity. Examples: gambling, drugs, sex.

    • you're addicted to smoking cigarettes, which the woman who stood next to you said to her daughter was "such a shame" before covering her eyes as you waited for the subway after your crap job. it isn't such a shame, really. you're going to die far earlier than you should, you know that, but that doesn't make it a shame, it makes it a godsdamned miracle. you don't have anyone who wants you and you don't have anyone who will miss you. heck, you wouldn't even miss this're addicted to cigarettes, you smoke half a pack a day, but it sure as hell ain't a shame.

  • Callous - They are hardened to emotions, rarely showing any form of it in expression. Unfeeling. Cold.

    • nobody ever left you again because you were never there; it's hard to be somewhere when you cut yourself off from it. the world was a strange and foreign place when you were ten but you caught the hang of it easily. you realized that you had to keep people at a distance but keep them on a leash; they couldn't get too close to you, but they had to be close enough for you to observe them. nobody ever left you again because you were never there in the first place, and that was the only way to keep your emotions safe.

  • Aimless - Devoid of direction or purpose.

    • it's not really a secret that you're a failure. you've got no real, practical talents, nothing that could land you a job, anyway. there's no future in which you'd actually be useful, so you just stopped trying to find ways for you to be. you'll stay at camp until your old and gray, move into the attic or try and worm your way into some god's good graces so they'll grant you a tricked out cave in the hills.

  • Withdrawn - Not friendly or sociable. Aloof.

    • you're like a closed book, a complete enigma. you've mastered the art of keeping your face clear of emotions, keeping a straight face. it's become so natural that it's how you look all the time, your face masked in an arrogant smug that just screams 'i'm better than you' and 'i know something you don't' and 'you'll never be as clever as me' because that's better than letting people see when you're hurt and happy and whenever you feel anything other than your 'better than thou' attitude.

  • Impious - Lacking piety and reverence for a god/gods and their followers.

    • you hate them. you hate them. it's not something you'd ever say out loud - you may be messed up, but you haven't got a death wish. sometimes you want to say it, want to climb on top of the big house and yell it, go all the way to the six hundredth floor of the empire state building to kneel and spit it at the throne, like poison, like maybe with the force of your words you could topple whatever balance they've managed. you hate the gods and the fates, how they just decide everything, decide who's going to die and who's going to live, planning out your life like it's a game of checkers, like they have any right. how they stay silent until someone pisses them off, never thinking to help any mortal out - the last time an immortal had done something nice for the human race was when prometheus gave them fire, and look where he ended up.

you've honestly never had much time to compile a collection of things you actually enjoy, but you suppose at the top of the list is cigarettes - you've been smoking since you were about thirteen, started because a boy at school had a pack and you wanted to piss off your christian foster family. it stopped being about pissing them off and started being about you, started being about settling your shaking hands and pretending everything was normal after a night working and doing unspeakable things that'll probably land you in the fields of punishment for all of eternity (not like you were cut out for any different).

you're not quite sure what else there is to like, honestly. you guess you like music, and you like sleeping - you are a child of hypnos after all, as little as you like to associate with your lazy siblings.

you like simple things. you like clean rooms, and you like warmth, and you like a hot cup of coffee in the morning with some buttered toast. you like sitting in front of a television for hours on end, letting the world go on around you. candles are nice, and so are fires in fireplaces. you've always been fond of a nice hardwood floor and a pair of wooly socks.

you're not fond of sunny days, which you're quite aware is very cliche. you don't care. the sun hurts your eyes, and everyone acts like, 'oh, the sun is out, everything is so lovely and fantastic!' it's not fantastic. some sunshine doesn't change that. you've had awful days while the sun hiding behind the clouds, too afraid to show its face, and you've had awful days while the sky was blue and there wasn't a cloud in sight.

you've never been particularly fond of overly optimistic people, either. the type who skip about, talking about love and acceptance and treating others the way you'd like to be treated. you'd like to be treated with respect, sure, but that doesn't mean you'll treat strangers who have given you no reason to respect them with respect. they don't deserve your trust or your respect. the only people who get your respect are those who have earned it, the only ones who get your love are the ones who have earned it.


you're not friendly, and you never will be friendly. sure, there are people who you're close to. you're capable or warmth, somewhere beneath your hard outer shell. your heart pumps, your cells work to keep you alive, you bleed red. essentially, you are the same as everyone else, and you want love and care and warmth just as much as they do. this is a fact. this you know.

but you deny yourself these things. you want them, but you do not need them, and if they are not needs then they are not important. you have never been one to have luxury items, and it's something of a cold comfort to cling to that, to push people away when they talk to you and try to initiate friendship. the only person who you will readily and easily let in is your brother, but you haven't seen him in years. for all you know, he's dead in a ditch with your mother, and you're the last one to carry the record name.

you put on a front; if you tell yourself you don't need these things, if you tell yourself that who you are is cold and unfeeling and hard, then it will be who you are. and it is, now. you've trained yourself for these things, to fit this mold that you're certain will get you through life; so far, it has. so far, you've been okay, you haven't been hurt.

you can be kind of petty, sometimes, trying to annoy people. blowing smoke in their face, glaring, staring off to the left of their head while they talk and using the dullest voice while saying, "yeah, uhuh, sure, whatever you say." you have it down to a science, how to anger people. it's petty, but it keeps them away, and that's what you want.

but you're scared. gods, you're so, so scared. your whole life you've been hiding in the shadows, your whole life you've been alone. once upon a time that wasn't so, but it is now. your brother, the only person you truly cared for, you haven't seen in years. your mother up and left you at ten to take care of him, but you couldn't even do that, he got taken away from you, too. you can't help but cling, sometimes. you can't help but cling to the things that matter to you, but you can never really hold on. they always end up getting taken away, somehow. it's a thing.

Social Status:
you're not popular, never really have been and never will be. and that's fine, you don't need friends. you don't need anyone, really, you've managed without people before and you'll continue to do so.

Face Claim:
kristen stewart

baby i got the death rattle - los campesinos! (song would be included but it is inapropro ))): )

remember when i started writing this like 2 years ago i do
also, to clarify on the sexuality bit - vinyl's asexual, but due to the weird nature of How Lila Does Character Forms, i can't outright say that because she doesn't know, and in some of my rp's she even thinks she's aromantic
physical flaws are talked about in the appearance section since i did it in a kind of specific way, and the list of flaws i used were only character flaws

mabel pines

Number of posts : 8785
Age : 18
Registration date : 2009-12-26

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