Life in the Plague Years
November 17, 2016 10:48 AM   Subscribe

"On the first of December, three decades after the disease first hit the city, the New York City AIDS Memorial will open at ground zero of the epidemic — St. Vincent’s hospital in Greenwich Village, now closed, where patients once flooded the rooms and spilled out into the surrounding corridors, turning the genteel facility very suddenly into a kind of war zone. All told, more than 100,000 New York men, women, and children have died of AIDS, and the memorial is built in their names. But it reminds us, too, as all memorials do, of how much has already been forgotten."
posted by roomthreeseventeen (30 comments total) 29 users marked this as a favorite
 
Welp...I've written three comments and erased each of them. Nothing I write seems to capture the gravity of this epidemic, its catastrophic effect on so many people, the infuriating politics surrounding it, the great injustices ladeled on these deep injuries, the profound psychological impact it had on me as a closeted gay teenager in the 80s, or the ephemeral nature of how the whole issue seems to have evaporated from the public consciousness over the past 20 years.

I guess the only thing I can really say is:


.
posted by darkstar at 11:59 AM on November 17, 2016 [18 favorites]


People who didn't see wouldn't believe it. I saw it up close and yet still at a distance (my father passed), and I can only remember the profound cruelty of the public response when I force myself to.

Nobody wants to remember what we showed ourselves to be.
posted by schadenfrau at 12:07 PM on November 17, 2016 [12 favorites]


The Bay Area Reporter's Online Searchable Obituary Database was the first thing that gave me a visceral feeling for the enormity of what was lost - so many lives, and such a huge well of talent and community erased in such a short period of time.
posted by ryanshepard at 12:13 PM on November 17, 2016 [4 favorites]


I remember doing a seminar led by Stephen Levine ( . ), near the beginning of my foray into hospice volunteer work and Buddhist practice. He compared the AIDS epidemic to the influenza epidemic during WWI, and said that instead of driving people apart, the way the influenza epidemic did, AIDS drew people together for support and care and love and community. He, and the hospice volunteer work that I did in the 80s, profoundly affected me and made me into a much better person.

It still breaks my heart to think of all the friends I lost during those years, and I feel as though there's an entire generation of gay men that is simply missing from the landscape of our lives.
posted by janey47 at 12:15 PM on November 17, 2016 [12 favorites]


I think about this a lot because so many of my favorite artists and writers either died during the epidemic or were formed politically by their activism around it.

I read this piece last night and what I thought this time was - what if we hadn't lost all those people? What if so much activist time had been available for other issues? What if we had those missing generations now? How many artists and activists, how many liberal and left gay men would we have on our side? How might the whole political landscape look different? We're missing so many people who ought to be here and who would be here as mentors, advisors, people at the top of their career, people with artistic standing, people who would be around to support GLBTQ youth...people who would, at the very least, be reliably liberal.

If you think about how things were going politically in SF in the late seventies and the radical politics that were being articulated by gay activists, you wonder what kind of counterweight to Reagan we might have had.

Between this and the election I was thinking that if there is a god, he's evil and against us.
posted by Frowner at 12:25 PM on November 17, 2016 [29 favorites]


The fighting back against the system that ACT UP did is especially worth remembering. The nearly 200 interviews of the ACT UP Oral History Project provide a wealth of experience and tactics. (previously)
posted by larrybob at 12:28 PM on November 17, 2016 [9 favorites]


I've been thinking a lot about this recently, and how much worse the epidemic could have been if radical organizing hadn't been a part of the queer toolkit since Stonewall. If the "don't rock the boat", incremental improvements that were spearheaded by Mattachine and other homophile organizations had been the only vernacular that queer people had to fight for their rights... I just can't imagine how AIDS would have been handled.

This is not to criticize those groups--they did accomplish a lot--but without Stonewall, would Act Up have existed? Would the massive networks of queer activists have existed? I'm doubtful.
posted by Automocar at 12:38 PM on November 17, 2016 [4 favorites]


Frowner, that's the basis premise of The Gentrification Of The Mind Not only losing an entire generation of artists but also an entire audience of the things they created as well as things like neighborhoods being de-gayed and the entire downtown queer activism scene vanishing overnight
posted by The Whelk at 12:41 PM on November 17, 2016 [6 favorites]


I was a suburban kid when most of this was happening, and not politicized or aware in any real way until around 1999. But the labor movement and I found one another, and I remain privileged to work and fight alongside many different people from all walks of life, who I likely never would have otherwise. One of the people who I have been lucky to meet and work with on occasion is Cleve Jones . I'm going to quote a recent public post of his:
"The next person who tells me that (we survived) Reagan and Bush is going to get slapped. YOU survived. Too many of my friends did not. Hundreds of thousands of innocent people did not survive the wars they waged. Trump supporters infuriate me, smug liberals do too. Wake up, this shit is real. Organize. Resist. This f**king shit is real."
Solidarity forever. We've all come too far, with sacrifices by too many, to go backwards.
posted by Unioncat at 12:45 PM on November 17, 2016 [12 favorites]


Not only is it the people who were lost to the epidemic, but those whom they left behind. The people who survived. They (they -- we -- I) are a permanently scarred PTSD generation. No amount of whitewashing, drug treatment advances, and sunshine and lollipops changes that. My formative years, the prime of my life, was nothing but AIDS, 24/7, and the fear of AIDS -- the fear that kept gay men from getting to know each other, the fear that distanced us from each other -- and that trauma never leaves you -- losing people you love day after day, losing people you look up to, losing any sense of mooring to reality, while in the meantime this horrific federal government tries to sweep everything under the rug and when it's asked basic elementary questions about how the government is addressing a fucking epidemic, responds with derisive laughter and homophobic slurs.
posted by blucevalo at 1:05 PM on November 17, 2016 [29 favorites]


Not only is it the people who were lost to the epidemic, but those whom they left behind. The people who survived. They (they -- we -- I) are a permanently scarred PTSD generation. No amount of whitewashing, drug treatment advances, and sunshine and lollipops changes that. My formative years, the prime of my life, was nothing but AIDS, 24/7, and the fear of AIDS -- the fear that kept gay men from getting to know each other, the fear that distanced us from each other -- and that trauma never leaves you -- losing people you love day after day, losing people you look up to, losing any sense of mooring to reality, while in the meantime this horrific federal government tries to sweep everything under the rug and when it's asked basic elementary questions about how the government is addressing a fucking epidemic, responds with derisive laughter and homophobic slurs.

I hate this world, I really do.

These past few days I've been developing a surprisingly detailed fantasy in which a post-scarcity Iain Banks-style culture sends a few GSVs to take the non-horrible people of Earth and all our stuff far away to a beautiful Earth-styled orbital, leaving the fundies and Trumpists and Putin, etc, to deal with our planet and global warming and so on. Left Behind? I'd leave them behind in a hot minute if the good GSV No More Mr. Nice Guy would take us all away.
posted by Frowner at 1:29 PM on November 17, 2016 [17 favorites]


.
posted by pjmoy at 1:39 PM on November 17, 2016


.
posted by lalochezia at 1:44 PM on November 17, 2016


A friend of mine is participating in the World AIDS Day Celebration of HIV Longterm Survivors in New York. Anyone is welcome to attend, but solely people living with HIV/AIDS for 20+ years (1996 or prior) are invited to submit short performance proposals. (FB Event)
posted by roomthreeseventeen at 1:49 PM on November 17, 2016 [1 favorite]


For some perspective: At the peak of the epidemic, in NYC, AIDS claimed about as many people as 9/11 every 3 months.
posted by schmod at 2:20 PM on November 17, 2016 [15 favorites]


My husband has referred to them as "the plague years" the entire time I've known him. He considered himself entirely gay* in the 70s and early 80s and it's sheer luck that he's alive; almost nobody he knew in his 20s and 30s survived.

His mom was a nurse at the time, and watched the hospitals start to get flooded with gay men with "that weird pneumonia thing" - and watched funding and research be deliberately steered away from them.

The entire gay rights movement almost vanished, as those who survived often did so by isolating themselves, going into hiding. That may have been the change that caused the push for same-sex marriage: many gay couples got a house in the suburbs and "acted straight" except for having a partner of the same sex; in some communities, their orientation was known, while in others, they were "good friend/roommates" in public. But after about a decade of that, they took stock and said, "hey... why shouldn't we be married? We're acting just like any other married couple on our block."

So: by refusing to treat AIDS as a serious disease instead of divine retribution against sinners, by encouraging the dissolution of gay culture that had built up over the course of decades, the homophobic establishment built the groundwork for the demand for same-sex marriage.

* Not my job to sort out if he "really was" gay or not. He ID'd as a Kinsey 6 at the time; he doesn't anymore, more like 3-4.
posted by ErisLordFreedom at 3:22 PM on November 17, 2016 [6 favorites]


I don't have anything more to say than thank you for sharing this and I am very glad I read it.

.
posted by sockermom at 4:28 PM on November 17, 2016 [1 favorite]


These past few days I've been developing a surprisingly detailed fantasy in which a post-scarcity Iain Banks-style culture sends a few GSVs to take the non-horrible people of Earth and all our stuff far away to a beautiful Earth-styled orbital, leaving the fundies and Trumpists and Putin, etc, to deal with our planet and global warming and so on. Left Behind? I'd leave them behind in a hot minute if the good GSV No More Mr. Nice Guy would take us all away.

You're not alone in that. And that's not the darkest of my fantasies, of which I will not speak.
posted by Halloween Jack at 7:46 PM on November 17, 2016 [2 favorites]


I will wake up at six a.m. again
And I will find my way to the front door like a soldier crawling through the smoke and carnage
Smoldering bodies at my feet
I'd love to stick around but I've got someone to meet
And I will put my best foot forward
And I'll thank God I made it out of there
On the day when my new friends come


The Mountain Goats, "The Day The Aliens Came (Hawaiian Feeling)"
posted by praemunire at 9:18 PM on November 17, 2016 [5 favorites]


"How To Watch Your Brother Die" - Michael Lassell, 1985
When the call comes, be calm.
Say to your wife, "My brother is dying. I have to fly
to California."
Try not to be too shocked that he already looks like
a cadaver.
Say to the young man sitting by your brother's side,
"I'm his brother."
Try not to be shocked when the young man says,
"I'm his lover. Thanks for coming."

Listen to the doctor with a steel face on.
Sign the necessary forms.
Tell the doctor you will take care of everything.
Wonder why doctors are so remote.

Watch the lover's eyes as they stare into
your brother's eyes as they stare into
space.
Wonder what they see there.
Remember the time he was jealous and
opened your eyebrow with a sharp stick.
Forgive him out loud
even if he can't
understand you.
Realize the scar will be
all that's left of him.

Over coffee in the hospital cafeteria
say to the lover, "You're an extremely good-looking
young man."
Hear him say,
"I never thought I was good enough looking to
deserve your brother."

Watch the tears well up in his eyes. Say,
"I'm sorry. I don't know what it means to be
the lover of another man."
Hear him say,
"It's just like a wife, only the commitment is
deeper because the odds against you are so much
greater."
Say nothing, but
take his hand like a brother's.

Drive to Mexico for unproven drugs that might
help him live longer.
Explain what they are to the border guard.
Fill with rage when he informs you,
"You can't bring those across."
Begin to grow loud.
Feel the lover's hand on your arm
restraining you. See in the guard's eye
how much a man can hate another man.
Say to the lover, "How can you stand it?"
Hear him say, "You get used to it."
Think of one of your children getting used to
another man's hatred.

Call your wife on the telephone. Tell her,
"He hasn't much time.
I'll be home soon." Before you hang up say,
"How could anyone's committment be deeper than
a husband and wife?" Hear her say,
"Please. I don't want to know the details."

When he slips into an irrevocable coma,
hold his lover in your arms while he sobs,
no longer strong. Wonder how much longer
you will be able to be strong.
Feel how it feels to hold a man in your arms
whose arms are used to holding men.
Offer God anything to bring your brother back.
Know you have nothing God could possibly want.
Curse God, but do not
abandon Him.

Stare at the face of the funeral director
when he tells you he will not
embalm the body for fear of
contamination. Let him see in your eyes
how much a man can hate another man.

Stand beside a casket covered in flowers,
white flowers. Say,
"Thank you for coming," to each of the several hundred
men
who file past in tears, some of them
holding hands. Know that your brother's life
was not what you imagined. Overhear two
mourners say, "I wonder who'll be next?" and
"I don't care anymore,
as long as it isn't you."

Arrange to take an early flight home.
His lover will drive you to the airport.
When your flight is announced say,
awkwardly, "If I can do anything, please
let me know." Do not flinch when he says,
"Forgive yourself for not wanting to know him
after he told you. He did."
Stop and let it soak in. Say,
"He forgave me, or he knew himself?"
"Both," the lover will say, not knowing what else
to do. Hold him like a brother while he
kisses you on the cheek. Think that
you haven't been kissed by a man since
your father died. Think,
"This is no moment not to be strong."

Fly first class and drink Scotch. Stroke
your split eyebrow with a finger and
think of your brother alive. Smile
at the memory and think
how your children will feel in your arms,
warm and friendly and without challenge.
Back in the early 90s, I did a two-voice poetry script of this poem. I only performed it once, but it worked pretty well
posted by hippybear at 2:23 AM on November 18, 2016 [31 favorites]


These past few days I've been developing a surprisingly detailed fantasy in which a post-scarcity Iain Banks-style culture sends a few GSVs to take the non-horrible people of Earth and all our stuff far away to a beautiful Earth-styled orbital, leaving the fundies and Trumpists and Putin, etc, to deal with our planet and global warming and so on. Left Behind? I'd leave them behind in a hot minute if the good GSV No More Mr. Nice Guy would take us all away.

Trouble is, and this is why the whole "just let the South secede again" trope and others like it are wrong—good children are born to bad parents everywhere in every minute of every day. So the "good people" leave a generation to suffer? Doesn't sound all that good to me.
posted by sonascope at 3:49 AM on November 18, 2016 [2 favorites]


That's why it's a fantasy! In the fantasy, it works out.
posted by Frowner at 4:43 AM on November 18, 2016 [1 favorite]


Trouble is, and this is why the whole "just let the South secede again" trope and others like it are wrong—good children are born to bad parents everywhere in every minute of every day. So the "good people" leave a generation to suffer? Doesn't sound all that good to me.

I seem to recall that I read reports that part of the anti-secession vote in Scotland was a feeling that they would be abandoning good people down south who needed progressive Scottish votes to counterbalance the Tories. And look at how that worked out for them. Now, they're going to leave anyway.

People who are drowning will drag you down to your doom. It may be unintentional, but that matters little when you're dead. Let the South secede and the Northeast (and separately, California) can offer a beacon of hope. The generation you speak of? They'll have access to planes, trains, buses; they can emigrate. Hell, if the South secedes, I'll set up an aboveground railroad to help them out.

I don't know if the AIDS crisis would have been better if NYC/the Northeast was a separate entity during the plague years. But it couldn't have been worse.
posted by aureliobuendia at 5:32 AM on November 18, 2016 [1 favorite]


Let the South secede and the Northeast (and separately, California) can offer a beacon of hope. The generation you speak of? They'll have access to planes, trains, buses; they can emigrate. Hell, if the South secedes, I'll set up an aboveground railroad to help them out.

I'm a native Californian — born there, lived there most of my life up till the Crash of 2008. The ACELA corridor and California (at least the part of it on the coasts, which is where most people of a "Let the South secede" mindset would want to live, believe me: the interior of California is more South than most of the South is) are fairytale lands. I left California for the South in good measure because of the crisis in wages and affordable housing and the hellish commute traffic engendered by them. That crisis isn't going to end anytime soon.

Long story short, if you can afford to move to the ACELA corridor or California (or similar regions), or have relatives and friends there who will shelter you and you can find livable wages -- bully for you, and yay for the beacon of hope. If you can't, or don't, which is the vast majority of people in the age of the Big Sort, including many who already currently live in the beacon of hope, you're just as screwed as ever.
posted by blucevalo at 7:09 AM on November 18, 2016 [1 favorite]


So: by refusing to treat AIDS as a serious disease instead of divine retribution against sinners, by encouraging the dissolution of gay culture that had built up over the course of decades, the homophobic establishment built the groundwork for the demand for same-sex marriage.

I was with a group of friends discussing this last night. Some of them were with Act Up, and talked about using the same tactics to oppose whatever horrors our new leaders come up with.
posted by maggiemaggie at 8:17 AM on November 18, 2016 [2 favorites]


People who are drowning will drag you down to your doom. It may be unintentional, but that matters little when you're dead. Let the South secede and the Northeast (and separately, California) can offer a beacon of hope.

This broad-brush painting of basically the entire US is just as ugly a kind of bigotry as those who laughed at AIDS victims in the 80s.
posted by hippybear at 10:39 AM on November 18, 2016 [2 favorites]


Yeah except AIDS victims aren't gleefully voting to deny me and my friends the right to exist.

Welcome to the end of my empathy.
posted by The Whelk at 11:16 AM on November 18, 2016


Take a look at the vote totals. The population in the places you are disparaging are not as homogenous as the vote results suggest. Neither are the areas you are championing.
posted by hippybear at 11:21 AM on November 18, 2016


A guy came in my mouth a couple months ago, and I did not flinch.

I just looked up, watching his chest rise and fall in the heaving aftermath, and swallowed.

I noted, at the time, that it was literally the first time since 1979 that I'd had that experience, largely because I have been one of the damaged survivors, so traumatized by the combination of an epidemic, a genocidal government, and a mainstream population that just stood around laughing with their stinking comedians as people like me died. In the early days, we didn't even know what would kill us, and it all just turned to poison, all the pink, playful, joyous sex I'd had fooling around with my friends in my tween years just burned to ash. My sparse relationships were too-often defensive measures with men who I sort of thought were appropriately desirable, but there was always a burn of fear, and a sense that I was looking for a safe home against the damage, even after the plague years started to retreat.

I did not forget, because those years left scars, right down to my core, made of distrust and an unsettling sense that when times were tough, most of my countrymen turned away, not towards those who needed help.

I did not forget, because I lost the elders who should have been my counsel on my path to adulthood.

I did not forget, because I was there, but hiding, in a little cave made of lessened expectations.

Love's overrated. Passion? Impractical. Dreaming of true love? Good enough will suffice.

So it came to pass that a convenient nine-year relationship wound down like a clockwork toy and I spent nineteen years on my own, with just a few dates and one slightly longer experiment in the middle, because the damage is deep and time teaches us how to give up—

And suddenly, I'm awash in something that came out of nowhere, with someone who was not even batting for my team until almost this very moment, and our fears reached out with tendrils of doubt and uncertainty and hurt...and found no safe harbor in the face of something entirely unexpected.

I went to the gay clinic in the nearby big city for my first tests in years, filled out a bunch of paperwork, and landed in a room of the clinic.

"You know you're supposed to be tested at least once a year, and preferably twice," said my counselor, frowning over my paperwork. "When was your last test?"

"1998."

"Oh dear."

He revved up a spiel promoting the benefits of PrEP, a chemical miracle beloved of a great many of my ursine conspirators in modern husky faggotry, and it took me a couple good coughs to interrupt the flow.

"I know about PrEP, but I'm pretty much not in the target audience."

"Are you monogamous?"

"I'm nothing. I stopped having sex with other people years ago, except for being the recipient of a blow-job every half decade or so."

"Um—" he started, then paused. "A handsome guy like you?"

"Yeah."

"And you don't get lonely?"

"I didn't think so, but apparently, I was wrong."

More damage. Can you forget how lonesome you are? You can, for a time.

And we talked and talked and talked, and the counselor sent the rest of his cases to other counselors, and we talked about the eighties and the plague and the aftermath and I talked about being so fearful that, in the end, I managed to talk myself into being content with love just being the little invisible pilot light buried deep in my heart, turned down to a sliver of blue flame that just managed to stay lit in spite of everything.

And we talked about the guy who came out of nowhere, and who came in my mouth, and I told him about the problems I'd been having with that guy when it came to sex, because apparently sex isn't like a bicycle, and you can become so adapted to solitude that being with another person can be almost unmanageable.

"How do you keep yourself sane? Do you masturbate regularly?"

"I dunno. Five to ten times a day, I guess."

"Jesus. That's pretty regularly. Your man's gonna have his hands full with you."

This, of course, has turned out to be true.

But we kept talking, and I'd end up crying, and the counselor would, too. It's so easy to forget how to forget, for at least long enough to just be alive and human and engaged with the world after wartime, when everything's just resumed where things left off, with adjustments, and you are one of those who never quite made it back.

In the end, he gave me literature, advice, a demand that I email him whenever I had questions, and a blessing.

"Go out and love, baby. Be alive!"

It's hard to explain how scary it is to revive a broken heart, to dig in with greasy hands and start putting things all back together after letting the machinery of your most intimate humanity lie rusting for so long, and sometimes you're storming ahead like an old beat-up tractor, huffing and puffing and clattering along through fallow fields, and other times, it's all damage, and you're desperate just to jump free and curl up into a ball so you can roll away to those old safe spaces where none of it ever happened.

Then, it's just you and someone else as new to this whole thing as you once were, long before AIDS was even a real thing out here in the provinces, and two sets of identical test results sit on a bedside table and you are up to something that your back is really going to feel the next day, after a whole night of alternating sexual gymnastics and sub-duvet gentle aftermath, and you and your gentleman caller lock eyes and don't let go, just watching that tension build on its way to something, and you're allowed to forget for now, and, for now, amor does indeed vincit omnia, and four arms are flung out at once in shouting abandon, and it is okay to just be there in that moment, free of history.

On the way to work, I paused to send an email from my phone, then headed into traffic with my enormous, beat-up pickup truck lost in that sea of cars and Cass Elliot in full song on the stereo, and with the autumn sun bright and my back fucking killing me, I just had to roll the windows down and shout, at the top of my lungs, "I am stark raving mad crazy in love with that man!" because the world needed to hear it, and needed to hear that it was even still possible.

Go out and love, baby. Be alive!

And I can't forget, particularly those who helped me along my way before they fell, but—

Remember me with smiles and laughter, for that is how I will remember you all. If you can only remember me with tears, then don't remember me at all.

—Laura Ingalls Wilder
posted by sonascope at 11:58 AM on November 18, 2016 [11 favorites]


Parachute
BY TIM DLUGOS

The Bergman image of a game
of chess with Death,
though not in a dreamscape
black-and-white as melancholy
films clanking with symbols,
but in a garden in Provence
with goldfish in the fountain
and enormous palms whose topmost
fronds cut into the eternal
blue of sky above the Roman
ruins and the dusty streets
where any door may lead to life’s
most perfect meal: that is what
I think of when I remember
I have AIDS. But when
I think of how AIDS kills
my friends, especially
the ones whose paths
through life have least
prepared them to resist
the monster, I think of
an insatiable and prowling beast
with razor teeth and a persistent
stink that sticks to every
living branch of flower
its rank fur brushes
as it stalks its prey.
I think of that disgusting
animal eating my beautiful friends,
innocent as baby deer. Dwight:
so delicate and vain, his spindly
arms and legs pinned down with needles,
pain of tubes and needles, his narrow
chest inflated by machine, his mind
lost in the seven-minute gap
between the respirator’s failure
and the time the nurses noticed
something wrong. I wrapped
my limbs around that fragile body
for the first time seven years
ago, in a cheap hotel by the piers,
where every bit of his extravagant
wardrobe—snakeskin boots, skin-tight
pedal pushers in a leopard print,
aviator’s scarves, and an electric-
green capacious leather jacket—
lay wrapped in a corner of
his room in a yellow parachute.
It's hard enough to find a parachute
in New York City, I remember thinking,
but finding one the right shade
of canary is the accomplishment
of the sort of citizen with whom
I wish to populate my life.
Dwight the dancer, Dwight the fashion
illustrator and the fashion plate,
Dwight the child, the borderline
transvestite, Dwight the frightened,
infuriating me because an anti-AZT
diatribe by some eccentric
in a rag convinced him not to take
the pills with which he might
still be alive, Dwight
on the runway, Dwight on the phone
suggesting we could still have sex
if we wore “raincoats,” Dwight
screwing a girl from Massapequa
in the ladies’ room at Danceteria
(he wore more makeup and had better
jewelry than she did), Dwight planning
the trip to London or Berlin where he
would be discovered and his life
transformed. Dwight erased,
evicted from his own young body.
Dwight dead. At Bellevue, I wrapped
my arms around his second skin
of gauze and scars and tubing,
brushed my hand against
his plats, and said goodbye.
I hope I’m not the one
who loosed the devouring animal
that massacred you, gentle boy.
You didn’t have a clue
to how you might stave off
the beast. I feel so confident
most days that I can stay
alive, survive and thrive
with AIDS. But when I see
Dwight smile and hear his fey
delighted voice inside my head,
I know AIDS is no chess game
but a hunt, and there is no
way of escaping the bloody
horror of the kill, no way
to bail out, no bright
parachute beside my bed.
posted by Rinku at 12:04 PM on November 18, 2016 [1 favorite]


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