I have few good memories of alcohol. I remember liking the taste of altar wine. The thought was quickly eroded when I overheard the pastor inviting good-looking ladies to the vestry after service. Apparently, there was a lot of leftover wine and they needed some help lapping it up.

I remember being at a close relative’s house. He had invited me for music lessons, with my mum’s approval. I was happily listening to classical music records when he staggered into my room. Nothing happened – he was just checking on me, he said. My room had no lock. In fact, it had no door. There was no one else in the house, and I was way too scared to sleep that night.

I remember having a family gathering at home – it was a wedding reception. My dad came home drunk and kicked out all the guests. I’ve never seen my mum more angry or embarrassed. It was the first time I ever saw my parents in a fight.

Another drunken family party found us sitting in car in Eastleigh. It was after midnight, and we were parked on the curb. My dad had been reckless, and when we challenged his driving, he took out the keys, slammed the door, and stormed off into the darkness. I don’t recall how we got home that night, and I’m really glad my dad doesn’t drink anymore..

My princess has been equally unlucky. She’s had to deal with drunkenness too. Her father was an alcoholic, and she’s found herself in places she should never have been, and seen lots of things that a child should never see. That’s why she’s terrified of alcohol. She gets upset when anyone around her drinks.

The past three years have been really hard for me. I’ve had moments when I drowned myself in Malibu and Baileys. But because I know how much it bugs my daughter, I made sure she never found out. Sometime last year, I had a glass of wine at an office party. I ended up arguing with a makanga for dropping us at the wrong stage, and trying to kick-box on River Road. I swore never to touch alcohol again.

So when I started my new job and found out about the induction ritual, I was pretty upset. I went along with it, because I was new, and I felt I had to follow the crowd. It made me sad, because I’ve lived a life of going against the grain and doing exactly what I pleased, only to be swayed by peer pressure at 30.

I’d been warned that my new workplace had a strong drinking culture, but I tried to ignore it. I figured I’d be safe, since I’d made it pretty clear that I don’t drink. But last Friday, we received an email from the boss. It announced a staff meeting at 5.00 p.m., and when I saw two bottles of Olmeca on the boardroom table, I knew I was in trouble.

The meeting was fairly serious, with PowerPoint slides, client prospects, and progress reports. Then we had a hearty toast to welcome the new staff members, followed by a shot of rum for the creatives. It was our reward for working through the weekend. I tried to shrink in my seat so they’d forget to fill my glass, but that didn’t really work.

On my way out of the boardroom, I was offered a parting shot by the lady at the door, who wouldn’t let me out until I had one. I looked to the boss to save me but he just grinned and said, “Don’t worry, it’ll make your words flow better.” “Sure,” I said, “but which ones?!?’

In total, I had four shots of tequila and a shot of rum, all neat, no salt. Then I crab-walked to the kitchen to drown myself in tap water, because the dispenser was empty. I had planned to meet a friend for swaumu that evening, but I couldn’t see straight, and the room was spinning. I asked her to come get me because I didn’t trust myself to cross the road, but she had an errand to run, and no car.

I called the boy I love, and did a lot of wailing on the phone. Finally, I called my little brother to come pick me up. Then I looked at my workmates giggling because I couldn’t stand straight, waddled over to my desk, and tried hard not to fall asleep.

I don’t remember much of what I said or did that night. I remember telling my workmates they were pretty, and adding #NoHomo quite a lot. I remember making a speech about my alcoholic ex, and how mad my baby would be to see me drunk.

I remember asking people how this could possibly be fun – walking around like spaghetti and seeing the world in doubles. I remember drinking lots of water from the tap, gobbling a couple of bananas and a whole lot of gum. Everyone else thought it was hilarious though, including the people that I called.

I suppose there’s fun to be had in watching other people get drunk, especially when they’re sober, sensible types, no pun intended. A lot of my workmates and friends said that my drunken behaviour made their day. I also know nobody forced me to drink. I had a choice to say no. But I didn’t want to look snobbish or self-righteous. I wanted to be a part of the team, even though I knew I’d hate myself in the morning.

When I got home, I was walking while tilted a little to the left, so my brother made sure I got safely into my house. My princess was in bed, and she gave me a sleepy hug. But she woke up instantly when she heard my voice. “Why are you smelling beer? I told you never to drink. Go brush your teeth!”

I dragged myself to the bathroom and spent half an hour scrubbing my mouth, because I didn’t want her to see me crying. I couldn’t stand the fact that she was ashamed of me. When I finally came back to bed, she gave me another hug and noticed I was still crying. I tried to fib my way through it but she said, “Don’t worry mummy, even if you smell like beer, you’re still my mum.”

I told her I didn’t want to drink, and that I was afraid that I if I had refused, my workmates wouldn’t like me. She suggested we pray that next time there’s an office meeting, I would find it easier to say no, and so we did.

As I drifted off to sleep, I sent a few texts apologizing for my asinine behaviour. They all laughed it off, told me what fun they’d had at my expense, and suggested that instead of seeking their forgiveness, I should seek my own. After all, I’m the only one that seemed upset by the whole episode.

Then I looked at the little girl lying asleep next to me, and wondered what it would be like for her. I wondered how she’d cope when it was her turn to say no. I hope it will be easier for her than it was for me.

♫ Promises promises ♫ Incubus ♫

Yesterday, at around 1.00 p.m. I got knocked down by a car, and my little girl was with me. I’ve tried to remember how it happened, but I have a blank spot at that moment. I remember visiting my good friend Bobo. I remember us debating about whether we should take the Woodley mathree or go to the main road. I remember us eating Choc-Stick and telling the ice cream vendor how we used to buy Red Devil for 7 bob. He kept asking us which year that was, because apparently, neither of us looks old enough to have bought ice cream in 1987. I remember my baby girl suggesting, for the third time, that we should take the Woodley matatus instead. But we were already on Ngong Road, and we could see a Citi Hoppa, so we figured we might as well take it.

We were standing near Posta, trying to get across, but the road was really busy, so we waited. A motorist stopped and waved at us to pass. We hesitated, but he waved again, so we waved back and crossed one half of the road. When we got to the middle of the road, we saw a white car some distance away, and decided to risk it. I figured he could see us, and he would slow down. Plus, he was fairly far away. I was sure we would make it.

Next thing I knew I was on the ground and searching frantically for my daughter. I’ve heard people talk about a glimpses of inertia, a sensation of flying, and seeing the scenes of their lives flash past. I didn’t have any of that. I didn’t feel the impact. I didn’t even know that I’d been hit. All I was aware of was a white car, a moment of darkness, and an urgent need to find my baby. For all I know, I could have blacked out for an hour or more.

I saw her on the curb screaming, and I looked her over to make sure she wasn’t hurt. There was yelling all around me, but all I knew was I needed to get my baby calm and off the road. I tried speaking to her softly, but she was in hysterics. I managed to get her off the curb, then turned to pick our bags. We had about three of them, and there were arms all over trying to yank them.

My friend was five minutes away, so my plan was to get somewhere quiet and call her for help. But there were people everywhere yelling unintelligibly. I just wanted to get away and be quiet. I noticed a man grabbing my arm and trying to get me into his car, but there was too much commotion, and I never get into cars with people I don’t know. He was yelling that I was hurt and he wanted to help, but I just wanted to be left alone. I had my daughter in one arm, my bags in the other, and all these people crowding me. I don’t do well with crowds.

I tried calmly asking him to let go of my arm, because my baby was getting more and more worked up and I needed to get her somewhere safe, but he wouldn’t listen, so I lost it and started yelling at him to leave me alone. He was squeezing my arm and hurting me, and I told him so, but he wouldn’t listen.

That’s when my baby girl kicked into defense mode. She stopped crying and started screaming at the man. ‘Leave her alone! Leave my mom alone!’ I was just as shocked as the man, and somehow he let go of my arm. I quickly steered my baby onto a grassy patch and we called for help.

There were still people all around. I have no idea where the motorist went, but people were yelling that they had his details and that I should call someone. I just took my baby to a shade near St. Hannahs and we sat down. I had started shaking, and noticed that while my baby looked fine, I had a lot of blood in my eyes. I refused to think about it. I was probably going into shock, because I wanted to scream and scream and scream, but I knew if I started, I’d never stop. So I focused on keeping my baby calm until Bobo came.

The second she arrived, we both crumbled. My baby, who had settled down, started wailing again, and I called several numbers trying to get a ride while explaining what had happened to Bobo. I have feeling that I wasn’t quite coherent. Bobo kept telling me to relax, and in the end she got us a cab and paid for it. She wanted us to go to her place and clean up – she seemed really worried about me. My head was burning but I lied that I was fine. I just wanted to get my baby home where it was safe.

In the taxi, my baby dozed off from exhaustion, and I felt some hysteria creeping in. I’m generally a loner, and I live like I don’t need anyone. But I was shaking, I was scared, my face was bleeding. I didn’t want to be alone. I called him to come help me. He has recently reappeared in my life, and he was the first name that came to mind. But he didn’t answer the call. I texted 15 people including my mum, dad, step-mum, brothers, and three of my dearest friends. Nobody responded. I can only think of one other moment in my life when I felt as abandoned as I did right then.

But I knew I had to keep it together, so I got home, made my baby strip, and checked her for injuries. Apart from a few grazes on her wrists, she was fine. She kept asking me to check my head, which was still bleeding and had soaked two handkerchiefs, but I needed to be sure she was okay before I began to worry about me.

Once I was sure she was settled, I walked over to the mirror for the first time. Christ! Had I been walking around like that?!? I had two cuts above my eye and red stains down one side of my face – I looked terrible! No wonder everyone was staring. I got some warm water and spirit and cleaned out the wounds. They looked much better, though the stubborn cut wouldn’t stop bleeding. I stripped and checked myself in front of the mirror as well. Some grazes on my waist, thigh, and elbow, but not much else. I wanted to get some dressings and pain killers, but my baby was too scared to stay in the house alone, so we walked to a nearby chemist to get checked out. We were given some painkillers and advised to let the wounds dry out unbandaged. We went back home, crawled into bed, and promptly fell asleep.

From the moment of the accident, people kept asking the same questions over and over again. “Where did the driver go? Did he stop? Why didn’t you let him take you to hospital? Did you get his details?” Even after the man had left, people still seemed eager to give me his number plate and description. I wondered why that was so important, since all I cared about was that we were safe.

As I told the story to a few more people, another question arose repeatedly, ‘What time did it happen?’ They couldn’t believe I got knocked over by a car in broad daylight. I suppose the logic behind all the questions was the blame game. I mean, it was a road accident, so somebody had to be at fault. I tried to figure it out myself. At one key level, it was my fault, because it was my decision to cross the road, and in the past, I’d have beaten myself to a pulp over that. But the blank spot in my mind made it difficult to establish exactly what happened.

The witnesses said they’d seen everything, and that the driver wasn’t looking at the road. He was staring over his shoulder when he hit us, which I suppose is why they kept trying to give me his number plate. The only reason I was able to keep it together long enough to get my baby to safety was the little voice in my head. It kept saying ‘It was an accident. Stuff happens. It wasn’t anybody’s fault. It just happened.’ The voice said it over and over again with such clarity that it overpowered my emotions. It drowned out my self-blame at getting my baby hurt, my anger at the driver, my panic at the crowds, my resentment at the people trying to steal my stuff. It kept me calm long enough for Bobo to arrive, and after that, it was all her.

That voice came from The Landmark Forum. It came from David yelling over and over that events and actions have no meaning. They’re just things that happen. What gives them meaning is our interpretation. That’s why when I was in my deepest need and nobody responded, I didn’t get upset. It doesn’t mean they don’t love me. They hadn’t abandoned me. They were simply in bed, or in church, or hung over, or in the shower. They weren’t ignoring me. It wasn’t personal.

I got through the crisis and lay down with my baby to rest. About two hours later, the frantic calls and texts arrived, but by then the worst was gone, and I was the one comforting them! My step-mum and step-sister came to check on us, and despite the soreness, my baby was so ‘together’ that she immediately took out some stocks and started selling! [She runs her own business at age nine – I’m so proud!]

There were points in between when I did break down. I did feel lost and isolated, and I did blame myself, so there were moments when I broke down and just cried and cried and cried. I only did it while she was asleep, because I don’t like her to see me like that. I knew she was scared, and I knew this could scar her, but I had no idea how to reach her and heal her and help her. I’d cleaned her outside wounds, but how do you mend a person on the inside?

I can’t help tying the weekend to my experience at Landmark. Last week was really rough for me, and I spent it dragging around like a zombie. On Friday, I had a particularly hard time and couldn’t find any of my support group, so I went online looking for Landmark Resources. Instead I found sites attacking The Forum, and by the time I’d been through five of them, I wanted nothing more to do with Landmark.

But I realize without The Forum, I would never have made it through that accident. I would have bogged myself down with thoughts. What if the car hadn’t stopped on impact? What if it had gone on after throwing us and crushed us under its wheels? What if I had died on the spot – who would have helped my baby? She was sitting on the curb screaming in hysterics. If I hadn’t gotten up and moved her, would she have taken my phone off my body to call for help? Would she have let anyone touch her? Would they have helped her? Would they have known who to call if those creepy hands had run off with my handset and wallet?

But instead of these thoughts crowding my head, I heard, ‘It’s an accident. Accidents happen. Get her home where it’s safe.’ The questions are back now, and they’re haunting me, which is why I’m going back to Landmark. I have a lot more demons that I need to exorcise, and since The Forum got me through one of the scariest moments in my life, I think it’s the only place for me to go.

There are three other things that have shown that The Forum is working for me. When I called my parents last weekend to mend my relationship, I didn’t think I’d made any difference. But a few days ago, my mum sent me a text asking me to get my brother to attend The Forum. She says she’s seen the change in me, and she’d like to see it in him as well. She’s even willing to pay for it. Of course when I told my brother, he burst out laughing.

Secondly, my dad called me from a  business trip and for the first time since I was 9 years old, he asked what I’d like him to bring back for me. I felt like his little girl again, and that’s saying a whole lot. The third thing is I was able to take 15 cases of apparent ‘rejection’ without it getting personal. This is me, the girl who jumps into ‘they hate me’ mode every time a phone call goes unanswered.

At the end of The Forum, we were asked to state our new possibilities. I now stand for the possibility of being rich, happy, content, writing tons of novels, and teaching a forum for kids and teens, because I want my baby to take the course right here at home. I don’t want her to struggle through life like I have – not when she doesn’t have to.

I’m starting a Landmark Seminar on the 7th of March, and I’m taking the Advanced Class on the 30th of March. I’m still not sure how I’ll pay for it, but I know I will. Meanwhile, if you’re interested in taking this journey, the next Landmark Forum [beginner’s class] is on September 7th, 8th, 9th and 11th and costs 14,000/=, so you should really think about signing up. It sounds silly on the surface, and my friend Bobo joked that I was so resistant to Landmark that I had to get hit by a car to get the message. But it really is about making life better, for everyone, and as hard as it sometimes is, it’s working for me, and it would be really awesome if it could work for you.

♫ Everything’s Wrong ♫ Crossfade ♫

Just so you know … I don’t mean to be offensive, but I am. So if you’re religious, believing, or strongly faith-ful, you might want to skip this one. Seriously.

Moving on. I’m kind of in a fix right now. For a long time, I’ve denied conventional religion. I started out being a Christian that didn’t like church. Then I got saved despite not knowing what it was. Next, I decided I’m uncounted. After all, The Book of Revelations mentions 144,000, and apparently, they were chosen before birth. So, since I was having such a hard time with my faith, I must not be one of them. After that, I felt lost because each time I opened the Bible, I felt these dizzy whirlings in my head. At that point, demonic possession was considered. Consultation implied ancestral curses, and yes, I’ve been exorcised. It’s not as glamorous as it seems on Benny Hinn. Candles, chants, and large medallions were involved, and if I hadn’t been so piqued and terrified, I might have played along and encouraged my ‘demons’ to talk back.

About a year a ago, I found The Secret and Neal Donald Walsch. I flowed with it for a while, but I had questions. For example, I accept that The Secret works. I’ve used to bring out a lot in my life. But … it’s a little … well … faithy. Let me explain.

When you really believe something, you bend things to match with your faith. Look, we all know grass is green, right? So if you woke up one day and the grass was red, or blue, you would assume there’s something wrong with your eyes. Or you would think it’s April Fools. It would take a lot of convincing to accept that someone showed up in the night with an alien zapper ray thingie and altered the grass colour. The alien could be standing right in front of you eating hotdogs and twirling his colour-changing ray gun. But rather than believe your eyes, you’d be convinced you were brain damaged and that the fact that you’re seeing aliens and blue grass is proof of that fact.

Faith is like that. If you believe you’ve seen the Virgin Mary in a fountain, then anyone who doesn’t see her is a pagan. If you believe that Jesus rose after three days, anyone who denies it is blaspheming. Similarly, if you believe death is final, you easily accept that the apostles hired a gang of soldiers to come move away the stone and steal the body.

If you believe in science and whatnot, it seems silly that some all-amazing being would ask Abraham to kill his only kid to prove a point. It’s far more likely our boy Abe was hearing voices in his head. Totally schitzo, too much desert sun. And if you’d rather kill a human than run over a cow, then it’s perfectly conceivable that you can drop dead and resurrect as a fly.

The Secret is like that, and so is my New Age. They both say everything that happens to me is my will. If I’m single, it’s because I choose not to be married. If I’m poor, it’s because I wanted to experience life like that. If I really want a red car and I end up with a blue one, it’s because the blue car is the fastest way for me to get a red car. Like … maybe in 2 days, the blue car will be written off, and I’ll get insurance, and I’ll be paid just enough to get the same kind of car, and the showroom will only have it in red. It could also be that I thought I wanted red, but deep down, what I really wanted was blue. Kind of like seeing [or not seeing] The Holy Virgin.

I like New Age philosophy because it’s accepting. It doesn’t say anyone is wrong. Gays, idolaters, animists, pole dancers … everyone is cool. And the reason they’re cool is that they made a choice. They’re all exactly where they want to be. New Age believes we all started in some space up there with George, and we all decided where we want to be. Of course once we got down here, we chose to forget everything. Life, according to the New Age, is this great big adventure. It’s kind of like Zelda, or Monopoly. You choose what piece to play, and you can play as often as you want.

The reason I find that principle tricky is that I’m not an adventurer. I’m not an adrenaline junkie. I don’t want to discover things. I don’t want to see the world. I want to sit here quietly, play my music, write my stories, and raise my baby. That doesn’t sound like much of a trip.

Also, there is no religion that can explain evil. At least, not to my satisfaction. Some people call it infidel[ism?] Others say the devil made them do it. Some wonder why a loving God would let babies get raped. Others ask why God would let you kill other people in his name. I mean, in the Old Testament, the Israelites wandered through the desert killing all the kites [Amalekites, Hittites, Everybody-ites] and God said it was okay. There were people living on their Promised Land, so they had to get rid of them. God said. Yet the same God said Thou Shalt Not Kill [Fellow Israelites]. It’s all pretty shifty to me.

The New Age has an equally strange story about evil. It says there is none. After all, we all chose what we wanted. So on some level far, far away, you wanted to be raped. Mike Dooley has a theory about this, and I’ll share it, because at some faithy level, it made sense to me … for a while.

Let’s assume we really are all powerful beings, and that somewhere up there in the afterlife, we love to hang out. Let’s say we have a best friend, and that we like to play together, so you follow each other through different lifetimes. The adventure for you is in finding each other and rekindling your friendship, so every time you meet in a new life, you recognize this strange, unearthly bond that you share. You’re literally soulmates.

So let’s say in one lifetime, your pal decides to be a murderer. The thing that will make him change his ways is when he hurts the one he most loves. He will butcher and kill his baby girl, and it will shake him so badly that he will change to good completely. So, as his after-lifey best friend who wants only the best for him, you choose to be born as his little girl…

The other theory is perspective. When you’re walking on a road, things look pretty basic. But if you get on a plane, a spaceship, or a satellite, things look different. Walking in your neighbourhood, you will see garbage dumps and dirty children. In the plane, you’ll see trees, rooftops, and little lines of road. From the satellite, you just see pretty swathes of blue, brown, and green.

The perspective theory takes that view of evil. While you’re lying there being violated, it’s the worst form of hell. But from a ‘spaceship’ you can see what led to that day. You can see how the thug started his morning, how he will later be caught and jailed, how imprisonment will save his baby from being his next victim. In that sense, evil isn’t really evil, because it has purpose.

That makes sense on a logical level, but I still have issues when a girl saves her purity for marriage because of her faith, then has a gang break into her house and rape her.

I think as human beings, we choose what to believe, then we bend everything else to fit into that belief. The idea is pretty scary, because it means we have 7 billion warped people blindly filling up the earth, and we have no clue whose belief is right.

There’s one thing we all have though, and that’s a conscience. We can get good at ignoring it and even blocking it out, but we all know it’s there. Some of our actions are driven by society and culture. We do stuff because our parents told us that we should. But deep inside, each of us has our own moral code.

In my case, I got over chastity. I turned 17 and decided it was boring and annoying being a virgin. After all, I spent hours feeling guilty over lusting after boys when it would be so much easier to go Nike. In the end, I didn’t do it until 19, and I felt really guilty about it for a couple of hours. But then I didn’t feel as tortured by my thoughts. They say the best way to fight temptation is to give in to it, and that night was living proof. Still, I  don’t do married men. It’s my personal rule. It’s not about religion or upbringing or faith. I just feel it’s wrong to enter someone else’s marriage. Thus says my conscience.

Yesterday, I decided that there is a God, and I decided that his name was George. It’s not about blaspheming, or bugging people’s faith. But for me, a mighty, loving being should be my pal, and George sounds a lot like my pal, and so my God is George.

I haven’t gone so far in this religion I’ve created. I don’t know why George lets children get kidnapped. I don’t know if George will keep my princess safe. I don’t know if George cares what house I live in, or what car I drive.

I do know that I love my old beat up computer, and that I once said if I ever get a new one, it will be a Mac. Instead of getting the money to buy a Macbook, George sent me a client who said I can use his Mac for work. So now, suddenly, I have [access to] a Mac. *Terms And Conditions Apply* Mike Dooley would say that I manifested it, and that the The Universe gave me something really, really close to what I wanted. The Secret would say that lending me  a Mac was the fastest way for The Universe to put one in my hands.

About a month ago, I went into one man’s office looking for some freelance work. While I was in there, I decided salaries would be a better option so I pushed for that. A month down the line, I was offered a consultancy, which is a cross between freelance and a salary. The Secret would call this a product of my early thoughts. It would say I didn’t shift vibrations soon enough. Traditional faith would say that God felt this was much better for me. Mike would say I created this job with my thoughts.

Meanwhile, I’m in the middle and confused. If I try really hard, I could convince myself I got just what I wanted, and that I used The Secret to do it. But it would still be really faithy, because I didn’t get exactly what I pictured. I just got close enough to think so. It doesn’t help that two or three days later, the client reverted to original plans.

With George on my mind, I can think that he wanted this for me, because he likes me, and he knows that it will help me. I don’t know why he chose to give it to me, and I don’t know what I’ll think when he denies my next two wishes. I don’t know what his game is, or how he chooses what’s a yes and what’s a no. I don’t think he cares for offerings or Sunday jeans. My conscience is at ease with skipping tithe, church, and virginity.

But I think George has a  good sense of humour. I think he knows just what he’s doing, and I think someday, sometime, I’ll find out what that is. We’ll sit with milk and cookies, and he’ll answer all the questions that I have. He’ll tell me why somebody’s baby was raped. He’ll tell me why I got the attic roof but not the spiral staircase. And he’ll tell me why I’m such an oaf that for me, heaven is ice cream, cookies, and milk, with no subsequent gases, cramps, and tummy aches.

The George & Conscience theory works just fine for me, but I’m not sure what to tell my daughter. I could [and have] told her sex is just for marriage, but she met and really liked that last boyfriend – the one I threw up over – and we were clearly not married. Plus, she watches all the soaps, so duh! I could tell her to wait till she’s 18. But she might lose her cherry to that boy that made a bet to slay the 18 year old virgin. I could tell her to wait till 21, but thugs could break into the house. I could tell her to wait till 25, but by then, bioclocks are calling and decisions can be stupid.

And what about booze and nicotine? I can say don’t drink and drive, but that gives her an excuse to get drunk and ride home in strange [sober] boys’ cars. I could tell her to follow her own conscience, but that’s kind of being an irresponsible parent. And of course, I’m assuming she’ll do what I tell her. She’ll soon be a teenager after all.

I guess the thing with my George is to take things one day at a time. I’ve noticed that humans tend to eat their words. It’s never about pretence, or even hypocrisy. It’s more about change. When you look in his eyes and say you’ll love him forever, you generally mean what you’re saying. Then you find out he’s cheating and you wish that he was dead. Neither of those is a lie. They were both true when you said them, and the contradiction doesn’t negate them.

That’s why I like blogs. It’s cool to look at your words, swallow them as needed, and add an edit or link every time you change your mind. Now if only I could learn to stop deleting them…

♫ Erase and rewind ♫ The Cardigans ♫