I found something new that makes me horny.
This is less a trait and more like an event that gives me the same rush as being turned on. In the last two weeks, I’ve had the inklings of two new friendships.
There’s something mentally titillating about making a new friend. You’re with this new person who knows so very little about you and vice versa. There’s an unlimited amount of potential conversations. There are no preconceived notions, no assumptions, no dirty history to drag up. It’s brand new and full of possibilities.
New friends open up new worlds. Boundless conversations. New ideas. Someone else’s story, their life, their thoughts, their creativity. When I meet someone new, I can’t stop thinking about them. I want to hang out with them continuously. When I recall tidbits of our conversations, I smile. It’s like my mind is on overdrive. The fun thing is that of my two new possible friends one is a female and the other a male, so I know my excitement is not gender specific.
It’s the same exhilaration I get from learning. The idea of knowing something you didn’t, the way it changes your mind, your thought process. A new friend, to me, is a new perspective. A new pair of eyes to see life through. Someone who introduces me to a new set of paths.
My two new friends are completely different from each other. They have different pasts, different presents and most likely different futures. But they’ve both already added seeds into my life. They’re a part of my present and will affect my future in some way or another, even if they’re not physically in it. Since they help me expand my mind, I find myself horny for the mental stimulation.
Old friends, loved ones and family are indispensable. They are people who love you the way you are. They know your past, they’ve lived it with you. They have weathered the good and the bad with you. And you know they will be there no matter how far apart you might be physically. They are like a safety blanket.
New friends may come and go. They might turn into something more lasting, or they might never be more than momentary, but even that single moment leaves its traces in your life. Snippets of dialogue. Memories of a shared laugh. A new way to look at an old idea. All of these are just as indispensable.
New friends replenish my mind and revive my mood.
Previously? Satisfaction.
A person should be satisfied with his life not because he feels satisfied, but because he has good reason to be satisfied. – Bertrand Russell
I haven’t talked about the happiness class in a while. I like Bertrand Russell cause I agree with many of his thoughts and statements. Mostly because they are so common-sensical.
I haven’t read enough of him to say whether I agree with all of his thoughts or not, but I know I like the comments about satisfaction. The terrible thing about most of the people around me is that they have amazing lives and yet they are never satisfied. They live in anticipation. They keep waiting for the next step. The promotion. The raise in salary. More people reporting to them. The bonus.
There is no time to sit and ponder the current situation. There is no time to celebrate. There is no time to appreciate. Life is moving at an unbelievable speed. They need to live in anticipation of the next move. They need to worry about the next step and make sure they’re not passed up for the promotion. There is no time to be satisfied. Satisfaction requires a different point of view. It requires one to slow down and deliberate.
Even if they managed to slow down, they’d never notice the problem. Their views are too distorted. They have absolutely no concept of how much money is ‘enough.’ They don’t know what success is. They don’t understand that life is passing them by and that they’re giving up their youth to corporate America. Don’t get me wrong, there’s nothing with working in corporate America or making a lot of money. But there is something wrong with a twenty-some year-old who doesn’t think that 100grand is a lot of money. There’s something wrong with a kid who’s only six years out of college and doesn’t appreciate the power of having forty people report to him.
These people have long forgotten the feeling of satisfaction. Which is why I find Russell’s words sensible. It’s not about how you feel, it’s about how things are. If you can’t see it clearly, ask around. Try to remove your distorting glasses and look again. I’m not simply saying “Be glad you have arms and legs” though that’s a more valid point than most make it out to be. I’m not saying be satisfied if you don’t have a home to go to. I’m just saying that most of us have an incredible amount to be satisfied about and, for some reason, many of us can’t seem to recognize that. I think we’re so busy running around, trying to achieve the next thing that we can’t feel satisfied. Or the satisfactions are too short and in between struggles.
So maybe Russell’s right. It’s not about feeling satisfied, it’s about being satisfied because you have much reason to and maybe it’s not a good idea to involve feelings. Maybe it’s just a matter of being rational.
Previously? TV.
I watch every show on TV.
I kid you not. I’ve always been a total TV-addict. As a kid, I couldn’t do my homework unless the TV was on and in college, the first thing I did when I walked into my room was to turn on the TV. It doesn’t really matter what’s playing; I rarely watch it. I just like the background noise it provides. I know most normal people listen to music for background noise, but that distracts me much more than the TV.
With the addition of Tivo into our lives, it’s gotten even easier to watch obscene hours of TV and now, with the shows I choose. I record about five hours of TV a day on week days and two to three hours on weekends. That makes up twenty-nine hours on the recorded stuff alone. Not to mention award shows, one-time movies, etc.
I’ve met many parents who refuse to have a TV at home because they believe it’s bad for their children and that they will become antisocial, etc. I’ve heard everything from TV makes you lazy to it makes you stupid. I would personally like to be the example case for how it doesn’t necessarily do either.
We might be able to debate my level of intelligence but I’m definitely drawing the line on stupid. Or lazy. And it’s not like I watch only the science or educational shows. I watch everything. More trash than education. I don’t assume TV is there for me to learn from. It’s my noise, it’s my way to empty out my brain. Some people need a drink when they have a long day. Others exercise.
I watch TV.
I think we should do a study. Compare the kids who grew up watching TV and the ones who weren’t allowed. I bet we’d find that the kids who grew up without TV become complete zombies when in front of one. Not to mention the scars from the alienation they must have suffered, at school, when their classmates discussed last evening’s episode of a TV show. I want to know whether watching TV truly produces lazy and stupid adults. I want to see numbers. I want to see proof.
Each time I hear of a parent who claims their kids are better of without any TV, I want to remind them that bans are only made to be broken. If you tell a kid she or he can’t do something, suddenly that very thing becomes extremely enticing. I know men who only eat sugar cereal now because they never could as children. Think of all the college freshmen. Think of the alcohol. Can you really tell me that banning works?
As in almost everything, maybe moderation is the answer. I’m not saying my twenty-some hours a week would be considered moderation but then again, I never claimed I was exemplary.
I just like to watch TV.
Previously? The Power of Mundane.
The city morgue is a mere three blocks from my house.
I’ve been completely exhausted in the last two weeks. Maybe it’s because my back has been aching on and off, enough to stop me from falling asleep easily. Maybe it’s the essays I run over and over in my mind. Maybe it’s the assignments I desperately try to keep on top of. Maybe it’s the 7am meetings that go for four hours. Maybe it’s the ongoing bomb threats in the subways I take.
I am taking a graphic design course. One of the six I signed up for. I’ve always thought I’d like to learn how to design better. I understand the basic principles so I thought the class might be fun and instructional. I thought I might learn about the process of design and maybe even get some insight on how designers get their ideas or inspirations.
Not so.
Since the class began, I’ve been stressing twenty-four/seven. I can’t stop thinking about my assignments, I freak out about them a week before they’re due, and I am miserable each and every second I spend on them. I doubt myself nonstop and cause endless arguments between Jake and me.
So for the last week, since my teacher said she doesn’t like my background image, I’ve moved from just stressed out to a complete basket case. I’ve started housing others like heather, mena, rony and his wife over aim to ask for their opinions. Details. Whys? Exactly Whats? Trust me when I say these people are way too nice to still be acknowledging my presence. I spent six nights in a row obsessing about this assignment. I slept late, went to work like a zombie, came home in misery and restarted the whole routine. All this for a class where I get no credit and no grade.
Two days ago, I mailed part of my graduate school application. The part that contained my transcript, three recommendations, and some labels. The part that would be excruciatingly difficult to replace. That would be why I mailed it with overnight UPS. Because when you send it overnight, it doesn’t get lost.
Not so.
Today, I spent the entire day talking to maybe thirteen different UPS customer support people. I started scared, passed through angry, made a stop in self-pity, and ended the day completely spent. I cried. I yelled. I cursed. I begged.
Let’s just say it wasn’t my favorite day.
At 5:30, I decided I couldn’t sit at my desk any longer and left to stand at the bus stop on the corner. Since I stopped taking subways, finding a transportation alternative has been an experience. I waited in the bus station, realizing that my design assignment isn’t all that important. Relative to this missing UPS envelope, the assignment doesn’t even matter. As we cross 28th street, I see the posters of missing people covering the walls of Bellevue Hospital. Right before NYU hospital, I see the police cars and emergency people outside the morgue. I start thinking clearly for the first time in two weeks: the envelope doesn’t matter either.
Tonight, I am going to get lots of sleep and try to keep things in perspective.
Previously? Two Weeks.
The last two weeks:
Envelopes with signatures across the seal.
Hitting the submit button in a web site that might actually change my life.
A celebration for two of my favorite people deciding that they are meant for each other.
Rereading essays for the seventeenth time.
Human behavior, imitation and culture.
A red scarf, knit by yours truly, with only a few small holes.
Crossing fingers and toes for good friends trying to change or maintain their lives.
Four-hour meetings, three days in a row.
A new team member.
Learning about the writing of the constitution, Aristotle and the stoics, the history of the United Nations, scientific tidbits, and the Medicis.
A movie poster designed by me, one that’s based on wishful thinking.
Resumes, too many iterations.
Anthrax, mail, fedex, subway, bomb threats.
Reading, writing.
Black roots rejuvenated, too chicken not to stay blond.
Five less pounds. Lifetime membership.
Stress, lack of sleep, anticipation, fear, worry.
Stolen moments of desire and love.
Hope.
Previously? Heels.
I wore heels this morning.
In November of 2000, I hurt my back, in December, I found out that it was much worse than my doctor had anticipated; I had two herniated discs. In June, my neck freaked. So it had been almost a year since I wore heels. As a person who used to wear extremely high heels daily, this was quite a major change in my life. I bought four pairs of flats, two summer ones and two winter ones, and alternated between the four.
On September 17, when the employees returned back to work, my firm held a department-wide meeting and advised the women to wear flat shoes for the next few weeks. You’d be amazed at how many women were wearing heels the very next day. But not me, flats had become my new friend.
This morning, I got dressed and fetched around for a pair of shoes that would go well with my outfit. My eyes kept drifting at the heeled brown boots. I picked up the shoes and looked at the size of the heels. Pretty high. I put them on. In the last few months, I lost a lot of weight and the heels helped accentuate my body, so I decided what the hell. I knew one day wouldn’t break my already broken back any further. If it helped me feel good about myself, I would wear heels for one day.
I had a few sciatica pains early on in the day, but overall the heels were fine. By the end of the day, I even ran from one building to another so my manager could have the letterhead he needed. I felt good about wearing the heels.
Around 7pm, I walked into the subway and took a seat. Since I take the station down by Wall Street, the train was packed at that time of the night. On Tuesday, I learned how to knit, so I took out my scarf and started knitting. We passed through the Wall Street and Fulton Street stops without a problem. Halfway between Fulton and Brooklyn Bridge, the train halted. The conductor said, “Ladies and Gentlemen, we have been told to stop immediately. I will pass along more information as soon as I have some.”
The woman to my left held out her hand to show to her friend how it was shaking. The two of them were looking through wedding dress pictures. The guy to my right kept reading his newspaper and me, my knitting. After ten extremely long minutes, the conductor comes back on the speakerphone and says, “There is a serious situation in Astor place and we have been told to move back to Brooklyn Bridge. This train is called back to Brooklyn Bridge.” The conductor repeated this four times, by the second one, people in my car were muttering him to move it already.
We sat there for another fifteen minutes and saw the train’s operator walk from one end of the train to another. The conductor kept repeating the same announcement, but the train would not move. I don’t even want to share with you the thoughts that raced through my mind at those moments. I only stared at my red scarf and mechanically knit. Another ten minutes later, the conductor came back on the speakerphone and announced that the police had cleared Astor place and we were going to move forward after all. We waited another ten minutes as the operator moved back to the front of the train. As he passed through our car, the New Yorkers cheered. Some girl said, “Hurry, some of us have to go to the bathroom.” People laughed. That thank-God-nothing’s-wrong sort of uncomfortable laugh. The operator walked back to the front and the conductor said, “All right, partner, let’s get this thing moving.” Everyone broke into applause.
The train pulled into the 14th street station and I got off to switch to the local line. As I walked down the street towards my house, I decided I’m not taking the subway again. Not for some time. Nothing can compare to feeling trapped several feet underground.
And tomorrow, I’m wearing flat shoes.
Previously? Imitation.
Another Monday, another happiness day.
We started the class talking about Aristotle, objectivism, stoics, and Bertrand Russell. As it’s now become foreseeable, the class started on one topic but another one took it over completely. Here’s today’s topic:
“Is it better to have had it and lost it than to have never had it at all?”
Yes, you are reading it correctly and no, I didn’t leave out the word ‘love.’ This question is meant to apply to all topics. For example: Let’s say you had an amazing job, your dream job, and then you get fired. Is it better to have had the job or do you wish you never had it? The argument against having had it says that since you now know what you could be having, you become very depressed after losing it. Whereas if you never had it, you will never know what you are missing and therefore you’ll never be that miserable. Especially since happiness and misery are relative, which is conversation for another day.
The argument for it basically says that happiness, no matter when you had it, is valuable and it’s always better to have been lucky enough to have had any happiness. A common saying does involve love. ‘It’s better to have loved and lost than to have never loved.’ Or something like that. Again, the idea, I believe, is that if you’ve ever loved, you’ve been lucky enough to feel the amazing elation that comes along with love and no matter how things ended, you should feel blessed to have ever gotten to feel it.
I side with the ‘better to have had it’ people.
To me, life is all about the experience, the journey. Another gentleman in class today said he never makes specific plans because this way he doesn’t have to feel upset when he doesn’t fulfill them. He has this very general plan and takes each day as it comes. There is nothing wrong with his approach, but it’s one I strongly oppose to. I firmly believe that big risks bring big rewards. If you never put yourself out there because you’re too scared to be hurt, you will never get to live your life fully.
Yes, losing someone you love or a fantastic job might depress you thoroughly, but it also means that you had the extreme happiness of having had those. People who never try, don’t miss anything but they don’t gain anything either. They don’t get to feel the surreal happiness that comes from being loved. Or the fulfillment of a perfect job. It’s like a delicious fruit you refuse to taste just because you might not get to taste it again tomorrow.
If you never plan anything, you never get the satisfaction of having achieved it either. I guess, to me, the pursuit is just as much, if not more, fun. I like to plan. I know that I can, or even will, change my mind down the road and factor that into my plan, but I also like to have a goal. A destination. A reason for walking down the path I chose. I like the idea of committing to a path. Being madly passionate about something. Even if it crumbles to pieces, you have had an interesting, life-changing experience. Not to mention the lessons.
If you’ve never had it, it’s true that you will never lose it, but you will also never know what you missed. Sometimes a single moment is enough to fill a lifetime of memories. Memories that help you endure hard times. Memories that make you smile even after the details have blurred. Memories that you hold on to like rare treasures.
To me, it’s always better to have had. It’s always better to try to have.
Previously? Idea vs. Reality.
I firmly believe that many of my not-so-close friends like the ‘idea of me’ as opposed to the ‘reality of me’.
We all have a side that we show to the outside world. An amalgamation of our resume and the properness of being in the company of others. It’s how we act in an interview. When we meet a significant other’s parents. When we make a new friend. It’s the information our parents tell others when they want to brag. Putting on our perfect behavior.
I call that the ‘idea of me.’ To an outsider, I am an overachiever. I work at a top-notch investment bank, I volunteer six to eight hours a week, I take six classes, I have a Masters degree, I read voraciously, and I speak seven languages. To an outsider, I am intelligent, caring and inspirational. I am good at heart. A loving person. I am a collection of positive traits. To an outsider.
And then we have the side that only the really intimate see. The one that awakes with a hangover. The one who’s too lazy to replace the toilet paper roll. The one who’s clipping his toenails. The one who picks her nose in private, or when she thinks no one else is around. The one who reads an embarrassing book or is hooked on a TV program he’d never admit to in public. Those really not-so-pretty and human sides of us.
That’s what I mean when I say, the ‘reality of me.’ What the insider gets to see is that I worry too much. Sometimes the smallest decisions are the hardest to make and I need reassurance about the stupidest things. I still freak out before every exam. I am never satisfied with my results. Every achievement is replaced quickly by another goal, a harder, more complicated one. I am perfectly capable of being petty, holding a grudge, and being selfish. I don’t take care of my skin. I steal the covers. I have been known to talk and even walk in my sleep. I grind my teeth like mad. I am far from perfect. Behind the scenes.
The idea of me is wonderful. The reality, not so much so.
When I meet someone who tells me how great I am and how they like this and that about me, I automatically think that all they have is the idea of me. The surface. It’s easy to polish a wooden table so you can see your reflection on it, but it’s hard to get rid of the rotten wood inside the legs. Which is why I don’t often pay heed to compliments from people who don’t know me that well. Even my friends, not really really close friends but the acquaintance ones maybe, at times, never move past the idea of me.
The real reward comes when someone takes the time to see the reality of me. The rotten wood and all, and still chooses to have me in her or his life. I don’t have many of those in my life, but the few that I do have, I hold very dear to my heart.
The idea of me puts me on a pedestal, one I am bound to fall from. The reality of me makes it okay for me to screw up. It lets me know that I don’t have to worry about my mask falling off when I am with this person.
Because I don’t have to wear one.
Previously? Agenda.
We all have opinions. I don’t know when it begins, but we form opinions really early on in our lives. A while back, I talked about how, by the time we go to elementary school, most of us have a theory on how the world works and how teachers should not assume that students enter school with a blank slate. The same rule, I think, applies to opinions. Somewhere along the line, we hear someone else’s opinion, we read a newspaper article, we watch a TV program, or possibly an amalgamation of all three.
Depending on the issue, and how much we care about it, our opinion can be well thought out or superficial. If we’re passionate about the issue, we dig deeper. We read voraciously, we follow the progress of the subject matter and make sure our opinions are up to date and we use every opportunity to bring our opinions up in conversation. Sometimes, we argue an issue when we’re not even well educated on it, but my beef today is not with those people.
Today, I have a word or two for the people who care about an issue and have done their homework on it. People who’re thick in the mud of it. People who claim they are well acquainted and passionate about a topic. These people are intelligent. They often are passionate and care about the issue, but just as often they are so deep into their own beliefs that they have stopped listening to others long ago.
These are people who glance at a few lines of the opponents’ article just so they can lift one or two sentences and attack them. They don’t care if the sentence is taken out of context. They don’t even care if it’s an outright lie. They are only concerned with their own agenda and they use everyone and everything to further their cause.
I have absolutely no respect for such individuals.
I’ve also previously talked about people’s listening skills, or lack thereof. Most of us are busy preparing our replies before the other person even finishes his statement. This is even truer in the case of people with strong opinions or agendas, the ones I mention above. People who claim that they are speaking for women’s rights or for minority rights or any other equally ‘touchy’ subjects. Each time I hear or read about a case when a woman, claiming she’s a feminist, start berating men for being men, I cringe. I am embarrassed that such a person represents my gender and feels like she can speak on behalf of women everywhere.
Personally, she can never speak for me.
I think what matters most in life is not that we have opinions or that they are right or wrong (not that there is such a thing when we’re talking about an opinion). What matters is that we’re open-minded and that we never lose sight of the issue. We should be careful when we listen to our allies and even more careful when we listen to our opponents. I believe that the more dignified person always wins. Not that this is a race. But in the end, we only have our integrity.
Next time you disagree with someone, I recommend you listen or read twice as carefully. Who knows? You might even learn something.
Ps: Apologies for the preaching tone today, I guess I am slightly peeved.
Previously? Uninspired.
I’m not a good fiction writer.
To be fully honest, I’m not the greatest writer to begin with, but I’m even worse at writing fiction. I’m not telling you this so you can tell me how good I am and stroke my ego. I’m saying it cause I know it to be true and I’m thinking that putting it down on paper might make me stop struggling with it so much.
I started writing fiction about two years ago. It was a whimsical decision, not based on any other event in my life at the time. I signed up to a fiction web page, and even from day one, I could tell didn’t have it in me. I loved the idea of having written but not writing itself. When I read over my stuff afterwards, it sucked so bad that I couldn’t even begin to fix it so I’d leave it as is. I forced half the people in my life to read it and I hid it from the other half.
Here we are over two years later, and in no better shape. I’m struggling through what appears to be tidbits of my second novel, when the first one is far from completed. Its pages are collecting dust in the back of one of my drawers, alongside the research I left undone for it. I wrote the outline for this novel, last fall. The characters are nagging me constantly, making me feel bad for not sitting at the keyboard and telling their story. But each time I sit to write it, words refuse to cooperate. Bleak and two-dimensional characters exchange unemotional words. My descriptions are the opposite of vivid. It becomes so unbearable that I need to stop.
Yet I can’t let it go. I can’t stop writing. Well, in reality, I can’t stop thinking of writing. I can’t let my story go, even if it’s a stupid one, it’s my story. I want to tell it. The characters want me to tell it. In the middle of one story, I start getting ideas for another novel. Yet when I want to write a short story, all the ideas have disappeared. It’s a lose-lose game.
When people tell me that my writing shows promise, I know they are being kind and not entirely truthful. When they criticize it, I feel this awful resentment and sadness in my gut. It’s like someone ripped my heart. Neither extreme is healthy for a writer-wannabe. And I know all this.
Yet I simply cannot let it go.
Previously? Ideal vs. Ought.
A week ago, I called my mom and asked her why she chose to marry my dad.
“I was sixteen,” she replied, matter-of-factly.
She went on to explain that she loved my father and in those days, people were too young to analyze it much further than that. My sister got married when she was twenty-three. Her boyfriend, who became her husband, has consistently been her best friend. So she was using more long-term criteria than my mom, but nothing too detailed.
Many of the unmarried women around me have a much more complicated set of requirements from a plausible marriage partner. To them, it’s not enough to love. It’s not enough to be best friends, either. They wonder if this man will make a good living. Is he successful? Is he patient? Does he like children? Will he make a good father? Will he be caring to her parents? Is he going to let her have her independence? Can he cook? Will he share some of the chores?
These are just some of the issues my friends raise. Not to mention the fundamentals, like physical attraction. They are twenty-seven and they have their own career, their own priorities, their own lives and the man is supposed to fit into all of that smoothly or it’s not going to work.
Which is why it doesn’t.
They either can’t find a man or won’t put up with the imperfections of the ones they do find. It seems that the longer you put it off, the more complicated marriage becomes. The older we are, the more established our lives are, the harder it is to fit the man into it. The more demanding we become, the less likely such a man exists.
What’s the right way? Do we marry in faith and with love or do we compile a list of demands and find the man who meets them all?
My opinion is that, as in most things, the answer lies somewhere in the middle. While it’s not a bad idea to make sure the man in your life is kind and caring to babies as well as you, it’s also okay to not dwell on every tiny detail. It’s really not that big a deal if he doesn’t bring you flowers every weekend. He can forget to unfold a piece of clothing. What matters still are the core things. Love, friendship, caring and having similar values.
Sometimes it’s best not to be so demanding.
Previously? Limbo.
Is there an age when the world suddenly starts falling apart?
An age when life-long friends suddenly seem to disappear?
I don’t have that many close friends. I don’t feel like I want to. For me, being a close friend in an intense experience. This is not just a friend. This is someone who is there through the thick and thin. Someone who knows you so well that, you don’t need to say anything for them to understand everything. You know what I mean. It’s all the stereotypical movie stuff.
I guess that friend for me is Jake. The one who loves me not in spite of my quirks but because of them.
Other than him, I had a few close friends. Some I met in college, some before, and some after. All are special. All have significant places in my heart.
All are starting to disappear.
As far as I am concerned, short of death or illness, there are few more awful feelings than losing a friend. One of those few, is limbo.
I hate limbo.
Limbo is when you’re still friends but you know something is wrong. Limbo is when you start thinking whether it’s a good time before you make each call. Limbo is when you are reading into each word so much that conversations start losing meaning. Limbo is when some of the calls get returned and others don’t. Limbo is when you alternate among acting nonchalant, sad and angry. Limbo is when you stop being yourself. Limbo is when you want to grab her and shake her until whatever it is, is gone, but you can’t.
Limbo is when you know it’s dying.
Limbo is what I’m going through with two of my close friends. The uneasy calls. The paranoia. The unusual politeness. Not knowing what’s going on. Feeling scared, lost and angry all in one. Desperate to do the right thing. To stop the inevitable.
I don’t know why it’s happening now. Is there something about growing up?
Is it really possible to have the friendship that the books and movies display? Can you really have a friend who’s normal and has her own family and life and yet is there for you each time you need her? Is it possible to have a great family, husband, children, career and a best friend? Or is it more realistic to assume that you have a friend to hang out and chitchat with but nothing all that deep?
Maybe it’s time to accept that life is not the movies and not a fairy tale. In life, we have friends that come and go. In life we have limbo. Maybe it’s time to let go.
I can’t imagine it will hurt as much as limbo.
Previously? Hedonism.
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projects for twenty twenty-four
projects for twenty twenty-three
projects for twenty twenty-two
projects for twenty twenty-one
projects for twenty nineteen
projects for twenty eighteen
projects from twenty seventeen
monthly projects from previous years
some of my previous projects
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