Why I Keep Watching Bongbong Marcos: Patterns, Power, and the Silence That Protects Him

Some people watch stock markets. Others monitor typhoons.
Me? I keep an eye on some politicians, and in this case, the president.

Not because I enjoy politics—but because I’ve learned to pay attention to patterns. Especially the ones that don’t go away. Especially the ones we’re told to forget.

I’m not a political expert. I don’t speak in theories or ideologies.
But I’ve worked with enough people to know this:

“The best predictor of future behavior is past behavior.”

And when someone’s past is messy, entitled, and evasive—and their present looks almost identical—I don’t wait for things to collapse before I speak.

This isn’t an attack on the president. Not at all.
It’s a personal take on why I’m always watching his moves, his decisions—and by extension, the actions, statements, and silence of those around him.

I’ve seen how politics uses optics to mask intent.
So I don’t take anything at face value.
I read past the headlines. I watch what’s missing in the statements. I pay attention to patterns that most people overlook.

I write.

Because silence, in this country, is the most expensive mistake.

The Education He Claims vs. The Education He Finished

I don’t expect every leader to be brilliant.
But I do expect them to be honest about the basics—like where they went to school and what they actually finished.

Bongbong Marcos has long claimed he graduated from Oxford.
He didn’t.

He failed economics and politics—twice—and only received a “special diploma in social studies,” a non-degree certification given to those who didn’t qualify for a full degree. The program doesn’t even exist anymore (Diktadura).

That didn’t stop him from repeating the claim.
It’s still on many official bios, spoken by allies, and quietly slipped into interviews like no one will check.

Then there’s Wharton.
He enrolled in an MBA program at the University of Pennsylvania but never finished. He said he left because he was elected vice governor—but there are no clear records to back that up either (Diktadura).

Even more disturbing than the dropout story is how it was all funded.

According to court documents and investigative reports, his tuition, monthly allowance of $10,000, and multiple U.S. properties were paid for using intelligence funds from the Office of the President—funneled into secret Swiss accounts under the names “William Saunders” and “Jane Ryan” (PhilStar – 31 Years of Amnesia).

It’s not about schooling anymore. It’s about the pattern.

A man who hasn’t come clean about what he finished, who paid for it, and how he benefited from stolen money—that’s not a leader who forgot something.
That’s someone who learned he could get away with it.

And if you’re willing to lie about your diploma, what else would you lie about once the stakes are higher?

Absenteeism and Mediocre Governance as a Consistent Pattern

There’s a difference between claiming you’re capable and actually doing the work.
So when he finally got the chance—six years in the Senate, then the presidency—I paid attention.

And what I saw was a pattern of showing up late, missing sessions, and doing the bare minimum.

From 2013 to 2016, Bongbong Marcos served in the 16th Congress.
He attended only 146 out of 214 plenary sessions.
He was late 34 times. That placed him seventh among the most tardy senators. (PressOne, Tsek.ph)

When someone’s job is to serve the public, not showing up is a decision—and a habit.

And while some defenders say he chaired committees or went on official trips, other senators—like Tito Sotto—managed perfect attendance while doing the same (PhilStar).

His legislative record? Mostly local bills. Road names. City charters. Ceremonial laws.
Nothing that shifted anything big on the national stage (Scribd).

When he became president—with a supermajority in Congress and full control of government—only six new laws were enacted in his first year. Just three of those came from his own list of 42 priority bills (PhilStar).

He had the time. He had the power. He had the backing.
But the results stayed small.

Martial Law, Historical Abuse, and Revisionism

But what’s more dangerous than silence is revision.
Especially when it comes from someone who’s not just part of history—but who inherited it.

In 2022, Bongbong Marcos said something that stuck with me.
He said it was “wrong” to call his father a dictator.
Not debatable. Not controversial. Just... wrong (The Diplomat, LA Times).

He went further.
When asked about the human rights violations during martial law, he brushed them off with a phrase I’ll never forget:
Abuses happened—like in any war.” (Inquirer)

Like in any war.

As if what happened to 3,257 people killed, 35,000 tortured, 737 disappeared, and 70,000 detained were just wartime casualties.
As if the arrests, disappearances, and torture chambers were footnotes. (HRVVM)

This isn’t about blame. It’s about honesty.
No child chooses their father. But every adult chooses what they stand for.

And Bongbong Marcos has made his choice.
He calls it political bias. He frames it as “balanced history.”
But what it really is— is a pattern of denial dressed as dignity.

If you can rewrite the past without shame, what’s stopping you from reshaping the present in the same way?

Avoidance, Privilege, and PR Over Policy

Denying the past is one thing.
But what worries me just as much is how carefully he choreographs the present.

From the start, Bongbong Marcos has chosen optics over openness.

He skipped every single presidential debate in 2022.
No tough questions. No real-time answers. Just pre-recorded messages and friendly interviews.
When people asked why, the reasons changed—scheduling conflicts, unfair moderators, selective formats.
But what didn’t change was the outcome: he was never in the room where the hard questions were being asked. (East Asia Forum)

And now, as president, the pattern continues.

Press briefings are tightly managed.
Access is limited. Only a few reporters get in, while the rest wait for transcripts.
Questions are pre-screened. Spontaneity is uncommon.

And when he does appear, it’s for carefully staged moments—ribbons, speeches, forums with soft lighting and no follow-ups.

To be fair, I understand why he’s careful.
We live in a time when one sentence—said the wrong way, at the wrong moment—can unravel everything.

I think of Heidi Mendoza.
A respected former COA commissioner with a solid reputation and clean record.
She was doing well in the Senate race. She had momentum.
But during a live forum, she gave a “qualified no” when asked about same-sex marriage.
It wasn’t hateful. It wasn’t loud. It was cautious.
Then one LGBTQ influencer posted a reaction online—and from there, it went downhill.
The backlash came fast. She apologized. She clarified. But she never recovered.

So yes—I get why a politician would sidestep unscripted moments.
But there’s a difference between being cautious—and being unreachable.

Which brings me to the jet.

Marcos often flies on a Gulfstream G550, even for domestic trips—to Davao, Palawan, Laoag.
And it was his own sister, Imee Marcos, who questioned why. (GMA News)

Here’s what’s stranger: that jet, tail number RP-C5219, isn’t owned by Marcos.
It isn’t owned by the Philippine government either.
It’s registered to a private charter company called Pilipinas Asian Pearl Airways Inc.—a firm with little public presence and an unknown owner. (Mindanews, Tribune, Bilyonaryo)

Ramon Ang and Congressman Zaldy Co have both denied owning it.
And according to official statements, the Office of the President charters it for high-profile trips—like flying Rodrigo Duterte to The Hague.

That means the public pays for it.
But nobody can say for sure who owns it.

This isn’t just about comfort.
It’s about what kind of power gets used when no one’s watching.
And what kind of silence follows when people ask questions.

When a leader moves through filtered spaces, avoids open debate, and surrounds himself with curated distance—you begin to wonder if that distance is deliberate.

Enabling the P125M Confidential Fund Scandal

The thing about distance is, it doesn’t always mean detachment.
Some decisions don’t need microphones. Just quiet approval.

In 2022, the Office of the Vice President requested ₱250 million in confidential funds.
They were granted half of that—₱125 million.
Approved personally by President Ferdinand Marcos Jr. (Inquirer, GMA News)

This wasn’t a vague endorsement.
The request went through the Department of Budget and Management, landed on the president’s desk, and got a direct signature.

But here’s what makes it worse: the 2022 national budget didn’t include any confidential funds for the Office of the Vice President.
There was no line item. No legal allocation. Nothing.
It was added mid-year using the Contingent Fund—meant for emergencies and urgent national needs. (PhilStar)

And what followed was… surreal.

Names like “Mary Grace Piattos,” “Xiaome Ocho,” and “Pia Piatos-Lim” appeared on acknowledgment receipts.
The Philippine Statistics Authority later confirmed that over 1,300 out of 1,900 names tied to the fund had no public records. No birth. No marriage. No death. Just snacks and gadgets disguised as people. (Rolling Stone PH)

Out of the ₱125 million, the Commission on Audit flagged ₱73 million as disallowed spending.
The documentation wasn’t just incomplete—it was almost non-existent. (GMA News)

Marcos never publicly called it out.
He didn’t defend it either. He just said the investigation was “up to Congress” and kept his distance.

He didn’t invent the mess.
But he funded it.
Quietly. With full authority.
And then walked away from the noise.

Why Marcos’s Role Gets Buried: A Pattern of Political Protection

Despite signing off on the fund, Marcos's role is rarely questioned.
Not by Congress. Not by COA. Not even in public discourse.

That’s not accidental. It’s by design.

He’s protected by the very structure meant to hold leaders accountable.

The Office of the Executive Secretary cited “Special Provision No. 1” under the 2022 Contingent Fund to justify the release—giving Marcos broad discretion to move money for “urgent activities.” (PCO)

Congress also gave him a pass.
They said there was no need to scrutinize his own confidential funds since COA didn’t flag anything.
That logic became the shield: if COA doesn’t question the President, then Congress won’t either. (Inquirer)

And since the President controls both the budget and appointments, who’s going to press further?

He benefits from silence.
While Sara Duterte is investigated, discredited, and now impeached—Marcos remains untouched, even though the transfer began with his pen.

When Duterte dared Congress to investigate Marcos’s own ₱4.56 billion in confidential funds, lawmakers waved it off.
They said his funds weren’t questioned by auditors.
That’s the bar now: don’t get caught, and you won’t be asked. (GMA News)

And yet this entire scandal—every fake name, every unliquidated peso—traces back to his approval.

He opened the door.
She walked through it.
Only one of them is paying for it.

And that, to me, is the real silence we should be worried about.

The Collapse of UniTeam: From Alliance to Fallout

At the time the funds were released, UniTeam was still holding.
It was a marriage of machinery, not values. North and south. Marcos and Duterte.
A partnership made for winning—not for lasting.

For a while, it worked.

Sara Duterte had her own power base. Marcos had his family's legacy.
Together, they neutralized each other's weaknesses and expanded their reach.
But as soon as the confidential funds scandal broke the surface, so did the quiet unraveling of their alliance.

The president didn’t attack her. He didn’t defend her either.
He chose something more familiar: distance.

He spoke about the importance of accountability and said Congress had the right to investigate.
He mentioned that transparency mattered.
But in none of those statements did he acknowledge that he personally approved the ₱125 million that kicked off the controversy. (Inquirer)

Then came the impeachment complaint.

Marcos publicly claimed the executive had no role in the process.
But in the same interview, he admitted he had spoken with lawmakers, including the Speaker of the House.
He also confirmed that his son, Representative Sandro Marcos, had asked for his advice before becoming the first to sign the complaint.(GMA News, CNN)

By then, the message was clear.

The same president who once approved the transfer now had no obligation to explain it.
The same alliance that brought them both into power no longer required maintenance.

Marcos didn’t need to discredit Duterte.
He just needed to let go of the rope and let her fall alone.
And when she did, he had already stepped to the side—far enough to stay clean, close enough to remain in control.

In the end, only one name stayed untouched.
The other was written into committee reports, press briefings, and impeachment filings.

It wasn’t a betrayal.
It was a decision.
And in this presidency, those rarely happen out loud.

The Unresolved Shadow of Drug Allegations

Most politicians are eventually forced to answer for their decisions.
But Marcos has often found a way to outlast the noise without ever fully responding.

The drug allegations didn’t come from fringe groups or anonymous posts.
They came from Rodrigo Duterte himself—someone who, just years earlier, had campaigned for a nationwide war on drugs with deadly results.

In 2024, during a public event, Duterte said Marcos had been on a drug watchlist.
He claimed he’d seen intelligence reports.
He didn’t hint or suggest. He said it outright.
And his daughter, Sara Duterte, stood by his claim—saying she agreed with the assumption that Marcos was a drug addict because he continued to avoid further testing. (SunStar, GMA News)

It wasn’t a casual accusation.
It was a direct shot from former allies—and it landed during a time when the alliance had already begun to fracture.

In response, Marcos didn’t go silent.
But what he gave was just enough to move on.

He pointed to a drug test he took in 2021 during the presidential campaign.
It came back negative—for cocaine.
The result was released quickly, backed by hospital confirmation, and submitted to the necessary agencies. (PhilStar)

But that test had limits.
It screened for one drug. It didn’t cover meth, marijuana, or other commonly abused substances.
And it relied on a narrow detection window—just a few days—unlike a hair follicle test, which can trace drug use over months.

When critics and former allies pushed for a more comprehensive test, Marcos declined.
He brushed it off, saying it had “nothing to do with public trust.” (GMA News)

Then came the video.

In July 2024, during a pro-Duterte gathering in Los Angeles, a vlogger named Claire Contreras—also known as “Maharlika”—released a shaky, cropped clip allegedly showing Marcos snorting a white substance.
It was timed to coincide with the State of the Nation Address and quickly earned the nickname “the polvoron video.”

But this time, the institutions responded fast.

The National Bureau of Investigation, the Philippine National Police, and AI forensic experts confirmed it was a deepfake.
Facial structure, ear shape, angle distortion—none of it matched.
Independent analysts, including SensityAI and DAU experts, found over 81% probability of face-swapping and digital manipulation.

Eventually, the NBI filed charges against Contreras and former presidential spokesperson Harry Roque for cyberlibel, sedition, and other related offenses tied to the release and circulation of the fake clip.

And still, the questions haven’t gone away.

Not because the evidence is solid.
But because the response is always partial—never decisive.

I’ve seen people say, "Why even ask for a hair follicle test? That’s private. That’s unfair. That’s irrelevant."
But I don’t think it’s irrelevant at all.
We’re not talking about gossip or personal preferences—we’re talking about public trust.
And trust is something you either affirm or erode with the way you respond.

Personally, I wouldn’t hesitate.
If someone accused me of drug use, I’d take the test.
Hair follicle, blood, urine—name it. I’m not afraid of results because there’s nothing to hide.
Well, I’m bald, so hair’s a bit of a problem—but you get the point.

I don’t take drugs. I take maintenance medicine for my age, like most people do.
That’s why it’s easy for me to say yes. Because I’m clean.
And when you’re clean, the choice to comply doesn’t feel like a trap—it feels like closure.

That reminds me of former Senator Sonny Trillanes.
When Duterte accused him of having a secret bank account in Singapore, he didn’t spin or stall.
He flew there, walked into the bank, spoke with the manager, and asked for a certification.
He came back with proof in hand.

Duterte backed off and said he was just joking.

It’s. That. Simple.

It’s the same with Sara Duterte’s impeachment.
If you didn’t do anything wrong, why hide behind sixteen high-powered lawyers?
Why depend on ally senators to block accountability?

People who have nothing to hide don’t make themselves harder to reach.
They don’t dodge questions or bury the paper trail.
Because if there’s nothing to fear, there’s no need to disappear. (Ahem, Harry Roque.)

Clean people don’t run.
They show up, hand over the documents, take the test, answer the questions, and walk out.

It’s not the accusations that stand out.
It’s the quiet refusal to put them to rest.

Ill-Gotten Wealth, Inheritance, and Selective Silence

It’s one thing to deny something questionable.
But what do you say when the evidence is no longer up for debate—when it’s been ruled on, documented, and traced in black and white?

The story of the Marcos family's wealth isn't speculation.
It’s not built on rumor, bias, or revision.
It’s built on bank records, court rulings, and government documents—spanning continents and decades.

In 1968, while Ferdinand Marcos Sr. was still in office, he and Imelda opened their first Swiss accounts under the names “William Saunders” and “Jane Ryan.”
That wasn’t an isolated move. It was the start of a hidden network—one that expanded into dozens of bank accounts, fake foundations, and dummy corporations scattered across Europe and Asia. (PhilStar)

By 1986, when they were forced to flee Malacañang, hundreds of millions had already been moved offshore.
In 2004, Switzerland released $683 million back to the Philippine treasury—the original $356 million plus years of frozen interest.
It was considered a major recovery, but even that number was small compared to what was taken. (World Bank)

According to the Presidential Commission on Good Government, the Marcos family is believed to have stolen between $5 billion and $10 billion.
And while some of it has been recovered, much of it remains tied up in legal cases, hidden behind paperwork and privilege. (Inquirer)

This wasn’t just wealth accumulated at the top. It was shared within the family.
Bongbong Marcos didn’t inherit a vague legacy—he benefited directly.
During Martial Law, he served as vice governor and later as governor of Ilocos Norte, all while living in comfort that far exceeded any declared income.
He had a $10,000 monthly allowance while studying in the U.S., his tuition and living expenses covered by funds later traced to intelligence allocations.
He stayed in multiple mansions—including the Wigwam House compound in Baguio—all tied to the same pool of ill-gotten wealth. (HRVVM)

The courts have said what needed to be said.
The money was stolen. The accounts were fake. The assets were acquired illegally.

And yet, decades later, there has been no apology.
No admission. No serious effort to give back what was taken—only ongoing legal defenses and media silence.

The family continues to live off what the law couldn’t recover.
They win elections. They rebrand. They disappear behind legal technicalities while the rest of the country is asked to forget.

You can avoid questions.
You can distance yourself from blame.
But you don’t get to pretend that this kind of wealth appeared out of nowhere—or that the life built on it is somehow clean.

Let me know if you'd like to adjust tone further or move into the next outline.

Power Maintained by Design, Not Merit

If integrity, transparency, and competence were the standards, he wouldn’t have made it this far.
But Philippine politics doesn’t always reward what matters.

Bongbong Marcos didn’t rise because of ideas, policies, or public service.
He rose because the system is built to protect certain names—and his was one of them.

His campaign in 2022 wasn’t built on platforms.
He skipped every major debate, dodged live interviews, and avoided situations where real policy discussion was required.
There were no details, no plans, no firm answers—just slogans, family nostalgia, and a call to “unite.”
But it didn’t matter.
Because the name “Marcos” was already a brand—refined through years of online revision, carefully packaged to look like a legacy instead of a warning. (BBC)

The rehabilitation didn’t happen overnight.
For years, the Marcoses invested in shaping perception through social media—polishing a version of history that emphasized infrastructure, order, and discipline while downplaying the torture, the theft, and the fear.
It wasn’t just PR. It was the long game.

The Marcos family’s return from exile in 1991 wasn’t just a homecoming—it was the beginning of a calculated, long-term plan to restore their place in Philippine politics.

When they fled to Hawaii in 1986, they didn’t arrive empty-handed. Despite later claims by Bongbong that they “landed with nothing,” official records show they brought crates of cash, gold bars, jewelry, and bank documents worth hundreds of millions. (Vera Files)

Ferdinand Sr. died in Honolulu in 1989. Two years later, Cory Aquino—under pressure to recover the Marcoses’ frozen Swiss accounts—allowed Imelda and her children to return, so they could be formally charged in Philippine courts.
It was a strategic gamble: let them return, file the charges, and hopefully unlock the Swiss-held millions. (LA Times)

The Marcoses seized that opportunity.

Bongbong returned first, landing not in Manila but in Laoag, Ilocos Norte.
He came home quietly—on a private plane, straight into the family stronghold.
Imelda followed four days later. She was indicted for corruption that same year, but still ran for president in 1992 and earned nearly 2 million votes. (Tribune)

Even while facing multiple graft charges, the family negotiated settlements with the government—returning some jewelry and assets in exchange for reduced legal pressure.
In 1995, Bongbong even proposed a deal to keep 25% of their remaining wealth if civil cases were dropped. The Supreme Court rejected it, but the message was clear: they were back, and they were negotiating. (UPI, UNAFEI)

Once back in the country, the Marcoses wasted no time reclaiming ground.
Imelda ran for president just months later. Bongbong ran for Congress. Both lost and won with enough votes to signal they still had numbers—and machinery.

They held onto Ilocos, not just for political survival, but to control the story.
In their home province, they rotated through public office, maintained tight patronage networks, and quietly reshaped the Martial Law narrative—framing the era as disciplined, stable, and misunderstood. (Asia Pacific Foundation)

But they didn’t do it alone.

Media allies helped. The Romualdez family reclaimed The Journal. The Manila Bulletin never fully turned against them. Carefully curated interviews and features cast Imelda not as the First Lady of excess—but as a woman unfairly vilified by history. (Renee Karunungan)

In schools, history became a battleground.
In Ilocos and other strongholds, textbooks softened the realities of Martial Law.
Teachers passed on personal interpretations. Entire generations were taught to remember infrastructure, not the arrests, not the fear. (Asia Pacific Foundation)

Even outside classrooms, the family kept mythmaking.
Ferdinand Sr.’s Tadhana project—a sweeping retelling of Philippine history—was re-circulated. The “Malakas at Maganda” imagery returned. Books, films, and speeches revived the image of a misunderstood dynasty. (UP Journals)

And around them, old allies stood waiting.

From Estrada to Arroyo, the Marcos family found support from political dynasties who once opposed them publicly but welcomed them quietly.
Cronies stayed in power, in business, in broadcast. And while the country focused on new scandals, the Marcoses focused on reclaiming space. (LSE Southeast Asia Working Paper 7)

By the time Rodrigo Duterte came into power, the table was already set.
But he didn’t just sit at it—he handed them the microphone.

A Presidency Protected from Scrutiny

He didn’t just return to power.
He returned to a system that doesn’t question him.

When the ₱125 million confidential fund controversy erupted, most of the backlash focused on Sara Duterte.
Everyone wanted to know how quickly the funds were spent, why the receipts didn’t add up, and how so many names in the documentation couldn’t be traced.
But rarely did anyone ask what should have been the most obvious question:
Who approved the funds in the first place?

It was President Bongbong Marcos.
He personally authorized the release of ₱221.424 million to the Office of the Vice President in December 2022, with ₱125 million specifically allocated as confidential funds. (PCO)

There was no line item for that amount in the OVP’s 2022 budget.
The money was drawn from the Office of the President’s contingent fund—an emergency allocation meant for urgent, unforeseen needs, not for quietly creating confidential budgets where none had been approved by Congress.
And yet, the approval went through.
No questions, no headlines. Not until later, when the controversy reached boiling point.

Even now, it’s Sara Duterte who is facing the fallout.
She is the one being asked to explain.
She is the one under investigation.
She is the one standing before Congress in an ongoing impeachment case.
The president, who signed off on the entire transfer, stays on the sidelines.

When asked why the President isn’t being investigated, lawmakers gave a technical answer:
There was no notice of disallowance from the Commission on Audit.
And without that, there was no basis for a probe. (Inquirer)

That’s how power works here.
As long as no one officially calls it out, it doesn’t have to be explained.

Marcos didn’t need to justify anything.
He simply cited the same provision that had justified the fund transfer in the first place: a clause in the contingent fund that allows the president to approve money for "new or urgent" activities.
It had worked for Sara’s office. It worked even better for his.
No investigation followed. No questions asked.

All the attention stays on the person who spent the money.
Not the one who moved it.

While Sara is fighting off corruption charges, Marcos keeps his distance.
He says the executive has no role in the impeachment.
He denies any involvement.
Then casually admits that he has spoken to lawmakers about it.
His own son, Representative Sandro Marcos, was the first to sign the complaint.

He plays neutral.
And somehow, the system lets him.

This, while the President’s office remains the top spender of confidential and intelligence funds in government—₱4.56 billion in 2023 alone.
And still, not once has he been asked to explain how that money is being used.
No hearings. No budget freeze. No press conference.
Just silence.

In a country where regular people can get sued over Facebook posts, the President can move hundreds of millions in public funds without being summoned to explain.
That’s not just insulation.
That’s how the system was built.

Why I Keep Watching

I’m not a political expert.
But I pay attention.

I pay attention to how people speak when they’re under pressure, how they react when challenged, and how quickly they retreat behind polished statements or institutional silence.
I notice the gaps—the things unsaid, unanswered, or redirected.
And over time, those gaps form a pattern that says more than any press release ever will.

I’ve seen the behavior.
The unfinished education misrepresented as achievement.
The legislative record padded with routine bills, backed by years of chronic absenteeism.
The refusal to acknowledge the crimes of a dictatorship that personally enriched the family, followed by a carefully staged return to power built on myth, money, and protection.
Now, as president, he is surrounded by layers of insulation so thick that even when he signs off on controversial decisions, the spotlight rarely touches him.

There are other issues I didn’t even get into—some just as serious, others still playing out.
But this isn’t meant to be an inventory of everything I know or suspect.
It’s a reflection on what I’ve seen, what I continue to see, and why I don’t just scroll past headlines and forget.

Because what someone says is rarely the whole story.
It’s how they act when no one is watching that tells you who they are.
And when someone builds a public image on unity and discipline while quietly distancing themselves from anything inconvenient or messy, I pay closer attention—not out of hate, but out of habit.
A habit formed from experience, and from living in a country where the loudest voices often tell us to move on, even when we haven’t properly looked back.

So I keep watching.
Not because I expect a dramatic collapse, but because I know that power doesn’t always break—it shifts.
It reshapes the rules, wears down resistance, and makes silence seem reasonable.

That’s when people stop asking questions.
And that’s exactly when someone should.