I'm looking for...

An hour. I seem to have lost one in the early hours of Sunday morning. And for once, it wasn't because I was drunk. I mean, I was drunk... But that wasn't the point I was making.
 Anyway, I tried to make some 'missing' posters to put up. However, since time is a pretty abstract concept, it was hard to get a picture of an hour. Well, a decent one I could show his mother anyway. So I'm appealing to you, dear world (or, one could say, the 5 people who read this) to help me find my hour.

 Similarly, I'm missing a half-bottle of vodka. If anyone has seen one, it's mine. Bring it to me.
 Even if you're on the other side of the world, and the Vodka couldn't possibly be mine. It still is, and you should bring it to me.
 See? This blog is dragging on now. This is what happens when I don't have enough time and vodka...

And Lo! The voice did speak to me...

And it said, "During menstruation, the sensitivity of a woman’s middle finger is reduced. Medical science has yet to explain why."  And I did look to see where the voice was coming from, and I did see 3 scientists hiding in a nearby tree. One of them had a loudspeaker, and with it, he barraged passers-by with useless information about women and their awful bleeding ways. But I didn't care: I'm looking for women... I've already got a hammer and chisel ready...

I was going to comment how weird that last sentence would be if taken out of context, but it's pretty weird in context...

I've been imprisoned for a crime I didn't commit...

Well, OK, I did commit it. But how was I supposed to know the elderly were still people in the eyes of the law? It wasn't like there was a lot of forced transvestism anyway...
 The prison isn't too bad: 4 walls AND a ceiling! I see why right-wing nuts are complaining, it's like living in a palace. Except, you know, there's no freedom. And a man called Pete won't let me have a go on the pool table.
 "Go on, make me." He says, "I've killed 14 people"
I'm not scared. I've killed more people than that selling timeshares. Max sent me a big cake, all covered with pink icing and little flower things. Normally, I don't really care for gender-defined foodstuffs - I've always felt a man can eat what he likes, as long as it isn't a baby - but right now, I feel he could have sent something more manly, to boost my image a little. You know, some roadkill wrapped in Neo-Nazi newsletters, perhaps.
 He sent a note the next day, apologising for forgetting to hide a file in the cake. He said he gave it to the guards to deliver instead. Remarkably, they brought it straight to me. Things are looking up: I've filed my nails into sharp points, and started the long process of digging my way out of jail.
 It would probably be easier if I wasn't on the fourth floor...

Ha! I've done it!

Yes, I've updated the blog! It now has texture! Texture! Yes, my blog is no longer water, but Tofu!
 So, I've gone a little insane. I really don't know why any of you are surprised. Anyway, the message I was trying to get across is that I have updated the appearance of my blog. I'm telling you because you probably didn't notice...
 There were no fire-spewing backgrounds, I'm afraid...

What's with all the Childrens story references?

On my way to work (It's a plot device to move the story forward, don't ask where I work), I noticed a large group seemingly protesting outside a factory. Due to my cat-like curiosity, I decided to wander over and see what was occurring.
 As I drew closer, I made out a large group of people gathered outside the factory gates. The majority of them were white skinned and golden haired, short in size and dressed as thus: men wearing skins, women wearing leaves, and children dressed in nothing. Their placards showed they were on strike from the factory, which I noted make chocolate, whatever that was. I decided, being as I already mentioned curious, to enquire as to the situation.
 "Ah," greeted one of the protesters. "My colleagues and I are protesting for equal treatment of Oompa-Loompas in the workplace. Did you know, sir, that in the original text, we were black African pygmies?"
 "What do you mean, original te..."
 "And!" He cut me off, "we were forced to 'white up' to keep working? And the work! We're not even paid money! We're paid in cacao beans! They may be our favourite foods, but come on? Would you accept chocolate to do your job. I mean, what do you do sir?"
(See, you just won't leave it alone, will you? You just demand to know about my job. What if I do something you don't like? You'll have to stop reading. You'd regret asking then)
 "Anyway!" He continued, not waiting for my answer, "A film crew came in once, and he made us get spray-on tans! And dressed us in boiler suits!"
 I tried to back away, planning my escape, but he continued...
 "And the singing! He brings in children, you know! And the machines... They're not safe... they kill them! Kill the children... And he makes us sing about it! SING ABOUT IT!"
 Frantically, I turned on my heels and ran for it, and caught a bus to work.
(Fine, I'm a pimp. I make money exploiting vulnerable women, does it make you feel better to know that? Well, I don't really. But I could, for all you knew.)
Behind me, I could hear the Oompa-Loompa mob shouting about glass elevators, unsanitary chocolate production techniques, and golden parking tickets. I continued on the bus journey, afraid to look back, vowing never to talk to an angry mob again.
Unless it was either caused by - or out to get - me

Did you know?

That babies are born without kneecaps; they don’t appear until the ages of 2-6 months old. I didn't, but a box on the Internet told me, so it must be true.
 No wonder the little bastards haven't been paying my loans back on time - they know there's nothing I can do about it!
 Unless I do something insane... Something featuring fire-spewing, perhaps...

Monkeys keep flying into the window...

It's not a good sign, let me tell you that. Misfortune awaits me, as once again, I seem to be the enemy of a witch. As I was thinking about whom I had pissed off recently, and if they were a witch or not, the doorbell rung. It always rings. For someone so awful, I seem to get a lot of guests, and I'm sure I'll enjoy that when I'm elderly and in a home. But for now, it's annoying. So very annoying.
 Opening the door, I found four unusual figures: A scarecrow, a tin man, a lion and a teenage girl. Of course, I'm used to each of these as visitors, but I've never seen them all together before.
 "Sup?" I asked unenthusiastically.
  "Please help us!" They chimed as one, "We each have problems that, as fictional moral lessons, can easily be resolved by our joined endeavours"
 "Really? So what... you're metafictional then?"
 "What? I'm a Scarecrow..." Began the member of the group who was stuffed with straw. "And I have no brain. Please help."
 "Scarecrows shouldn't talk." I replied, "And you don't need a brain to scare crows."
With that, I set fire to him, like some sort of fire-spewing thing. Seemingly unphased with this, the tin man began to talk:
 "Sir, as a tin man, I have no heart"
 "Well, that's no problem." I replied. I knew that keeping all those pig's hearts in the fridge was a good idea. Of course, my friends and families had worried about me, but they'd be worrying on the other sides of their face now.
 "And you, Mr. Lion?"
 "I am a coward..." He shook nervously.
 "Well, that's not a problem either!" I chimed happily. "Just come in, enroll in my comprehensive psychological hardening programme. Once you're finished, your killing sprees will make Vietnam look like an ice-cream castle."
 My mind preoccupied with the idea of tiny, jelly-baby soldiers on mint choc-chip battlements, I almost forgot about the girl who, after a polite cough, introduced herself as Dorothy.
 "And your problem?"
 "Well, you see, I want to go home."
 "Ah, but you had the power to go home any time you wanted. Just follow my instructions."
 Thus, she duly began by closing her eyes, tapping her heels together three times and chanting "There's no place like home." While she was doing this, I threw a sack over her head, and locked her in the basement. There'd be a handsome ransom in this for me... Yes, that was another day's honest work over. It's nice to know, at the end of the day, that you made some difference in the word.
 Even if it wasn't for the best.

Outside, they grow ever closer

So yea, giant vegetables - mainly carrots - have risen from their patches, and are converging on my flat. Of course, this poses no real threat to me, as they have no arms or legs.
 Actually, that raises the question of how they're moving towards me. Which leads me neatly onto my next point: Lauren, over at Think Spin, bestowed a Happy 101 award on me. I don't know what any of this means, except there's no cash prize. However, even without a huge sack of money, I'm still pleased with this. So, why not pop over and check out her site, see who else she gave the award to, and such?
 If anyone else wants a mention, why not make up an award and present it to me? You don't have to put much work into it: Just fake a huge ceremony, and maybe get a little statue made up. And hire some celebrities. Or camels, wearing little suits. That would be just splendid.

Similarly, if you really want to curry favour with me, why not submit an essay under the title "Excluding Jacobitism, discuss the extent and reasons for popular protest in eighteenth-century Scotland." The deadline is next Sunday at midnight. The 2nd prize is a special certificate, which you have to make yourself at a certificate making shop.
 I have made a salad from the vegetables. I will not eat it, and it will go soggy and brown around the edges. the winning essay shall receive this salad, posted as slowly as possible to your home address.

Humour doesn't translate well to stereotypical cavemen situations.

There was a loud thud at my cave entrance. With growing caveman fear, I went to draw back the tigerskin door, and see who it was.
 At the door stood two cavemen, dressed in well-sewn tigerskin. Each carried a large, flat stone.
 "Hello. We here to tell you about Sun God." Said the first.
 "Yes." Said the second, "he make sun work."
 "We see you busy," resumed the first. "So we leave you slab to look at. Slab blank, writing not invented yet"
I took the slab, and politely closed the tigerskin door. This, I reflected, was stupid. Early society didn't function like this at all, and I'm sure that early religion was nothing like how I portrayed it. I'm very sorry to any lovers of ancient history out there.
 On the bright side, at least I didn't have dinosaurs interacting with humans. That only happens on TV, or at Loch Ness...

Nightmare at 20,000 leagues under the sea.

Portrait of a frightened man: Mr. Paul Blanchard, nineteen, man, son and liar on sick-leave. Mr. Blanchard has just been discharged from a sanitarium where he spent the last six months recovering from a nervous breakdown, the onset of which took place on an evening not dissimilar to this one, on an airliner very much like the one in which Mr. Blanchard is about to be flown home - the difference being that, on that evening half a year ago, Mr. Blanchard's flight was terminated by the onslaught of his mental breakdown, and featured more bears. Also, he's not flying, he's on a submarine. Tonight, he's traveling all the way to his appointed destination, which, contrary to Mr. Blanchard's plan, happens to be in the darkest corner of the sea. You know, the bit with those fuck-ugly fish with the lights.
 Arrgh! I'm in a submarine, and a giant narwhal is ripping up one of the wings!... Hey, wait a minute...

Sorry. I thought of the title first, then tried to make a joke out of it. I have failed, and am going in to self-imposed exile in the cesspit of mankind, France. I shall be giving away all my possessions before I leave, so friends: get in an application form if you want anything, accompanied by an essay about my brilliance. Obviously, don't make it too good, or I might be compelled to stay.

Urgh...
 With a supreme amount of effort, I managed to raise my head. Slowly, I forced the world around me into focus. Had to assess my surroundings. Right, what do I know?
 Hangover. That tells me I'm hungover, so I was drunk. Well, no surprise there. I was in a suit, somewhat dishevelled. What did that mean? Wedding? Funeral? Court Case? Ah, that was it... I'd been in court... my case against Dr. Moriarty had failed again, no surprise there either. He's far too cunning, and deserves a better advisory than me... So, that was why I was drunk and suited, OK. But where was I? The room around me, that looked familiar... But not home-familiar, no... different. Somewhere I'd seen, on... T.V.
 Ah, got it. It's the oval office. Impressive, I'm not even on the same continent anymore. And I must have told some pretty impressive lies to get in here... On the other hand, maybe they'd just thought Bush was back...
 Getting to my feet, I staggered to the window and poked at it pathetically. So... It was sturdier than I'd imagined. It was far too cunning, and deserves a better advisory than me... Must be some way out...
 In the corner of the cornerless room, a chair was on fire. Panicking, I opened the door and walked out. Well, that dealt with two problems. A small group of people were gathered nearby, and turned to look at me with shock. I looked back with shock too... How did they fit a car in here? Wait, not just any car... Kennedy's car, the one he was shot in! I turned, and ran into the imposing, unmoving mass of Al Capone. It was then it hit me: I wasn't in America, I was in an American-themed museum! At the same time, an elderly security guard also hit me. As I lost consciousness, I was aware of being dragged towards a fire exit...

With a supreme amount of effort, I managed to raise my head. Slowly, I forced the world around me into focus. Had to assess my surroundings. Right, what do I know?
Hangover. That tells me I'm hungover, so I was drunk. Well, no surprise there. I was in a suit, somewhat dishevelled. What did that mean? Wedding? Funeral? Court Case? Ah, that was it... I'd been in court... my case against Dr. Moriarty had failed again, no surprise there either. He's far too cunning, and deserves a better advisory than me... So, that was why I was drunk and suited, OK. But where was I? Ah, the alleyway around me was familiar. Very familiar in fact. At last my long search was over: I was home!

I've sprung a leak...

Fortunately, I'm not a boat, so I'm wasn't immediately worried. Still, to be on the safe side, I called a plumber to come and take a look.
 The doorbell rung, and I duly opened it. The plumber stood outside. Well, I assumed he was a plumber: He had tool-belt anyway, and a small moustache. He looked up as I opened the door:
 "Good morning madam," He began. "I hear your pipes need looking at..."
I sighed, and let the plumber in.
 "The leak's in my bedroom," I began unthinkingly. "Can you try and fix it?"
 "The bedroom? Yea, I'll see what I can do. Just show me your leak, and I'll see if I've got the tools for the job."
 I showed the plumber into my room, and wandered off to make some coffee. I returned, about 5 minutes later, to find the plumber sprawled naked on my bed. I looked at him in shock for a few moments, and he began to look sheepish. From my walls came the rush of water, and like a badly-formed sexual metaphor, the pipes broke, spurting water into the room. After a few minutes, I snorkeled the plumber and left him to work.
 In fact, it turns out he has no actual plumbing qualifications. As such, he drowned after a few minutes. Fortunately, I opened a window and the water flowed out, taking the dead plumber with it.
 What I should have done was get something fire-spewing to evaporate the water.
 Do you get fire-spewing plumbers? I'd like to think so, there's certainly a market for them...

Of recent, I've begun to take an active interest in politics.

Starting with local politics, in fact. First, I wrote to my local Member of Parliament... Well, I say writing. In fact, I've started posting jam sandwiches to local politicians. Its been causing quite a fuss, in fact. Probably due to the envelopes leaking red liquid.
 The news reports call me a madman, but the politicians aren't complaining. If anything, they look well-fed.

Paul and the dragon

Once again, ridiculous tragedy has befallen me. Outside, in my back garden, a giant, fire-spewing dragon has taken up residence. Its not really causing me any trouble at the moment - I tend to send out a sheep for it to eat every day, and it seems pretty content with that (The dragon, that is. The sheep are generally discontent with the whole plan.) However, with Spring approaching, I really want to tend to my vegetable patch, and the over-sized lizard is camped out on top of it. To this end, I hired a group of reputable dragon-slayers to help me out. When I first read their advert - located as all good adverts are; in a phone-booth - I thought the spelling mistakes and crude punctuation were to make the advert more 'olde-worlde'ish. However, it was not. Despite their claims to be able to "tame the giant serpent", these so-called dragon slayers were hideously incompetent. They claimed to be able to make the dragon "Spew its fire until it could spew no more", but in fact, they were burned alive within seconds of trying. And to make things worse, since the dragon is taking up my whole back yard, I have no-where to bury the bodies.
 I'm running out of sheep now. Max is coming 'round later... I wonder if he tastes like mutton?

I entered the bookshop.

I entered the bookshop. I apologise for the lack of drama in this introduction, but it's true. I did, in fact, enter the bookshop. Well, not entirely true. Actually, I'm pretty much making this all up.
 So, I entered the bookshop and took a casual glance around. I hadn't come for anything in particular, I was just trying to pass a few hours before going home. The bookshop, large and open, was fairly generic, and probably has some sort of generic name that was similar to a real bookshop, like WaterSmiths, or something else stupid. It wasn't busy, which was good - I can rarely stomach eating a crowd - mainly populated by sheepish looking men in coats, squinting through over-sized glasses at books they don't want, and turning down offers of help with polite embarrassment. However, something did catch my eye: There, in the middle of the room, a table had been set up. Piles of books were stacked to one side, and a balding, bearded man in an ill-fitting suit was seated behind it. Above the table, a large banner explained the situation to me.
 "Meet Shakespeare's reanimated corpse!" It said. Of course, I thought, that explains the piles of Shakespearean texts next to the table.
 I watched for a few minutes. No-one showed any interest in the table, or the man behind it. It was very sad, I reflected sadly. On the other hand, I wasn't going to go over there, the man was a liar: Branding so much of his work comedy, when only Romeo and Juliet was actually funny.
 Shakespeare himself didn't seem too upset by the lack of customers either. In fact, he seemed more confused by the pen he was holding, clicking the lid over and over again. A few of the sheepish looking men were passing his table, trying to get to the agriculture section behind him. Their expressions were those of men who really felt they should go to the table, but really didn't want to.
 Presently, a suited man I took to be the manager emerged from the back of the store, and stormed up to the table. Emotionally, he made a plea for people to take an interest in the re-animated author:
 "Come on people!" He yelled, "Why, this man is one of the most famous authors and poets of all time! fire-spewing tales! I mean, even if that doesn't interest you, the man has been brought back from the dead. Surely you at least have some questions? He can tell you about heaven, for God's sake!"
 "Lot of women... Almost too many, and not enough cooking being done..." I heard Shakespeare mutter, but we should remember he was from another time...
 "Yes!" Yelled the manager again. "Good old fashioned bigotry, from a historical figure! I mean, look how sad he is! How embarrassed! He's here to sign his work, and no-one turned up!"
 Shakespeare, catching on to what was being said, sighed and slumped head in hands.
 "I mean, give him some company at least! All his friends and family are long dead, and he's lost in a world he doesn't understand!"
 At this, Shakespeare began to cry. After a few minutes, he seemed to stop, and the manager began jabbing him with a stick. Feeling sorry for him, I gave him a few pieces of candy and a fiver, then headed home. I've said it before, and I'll say it again, men shouldn't play God in bookshops. It only leads to upset authors.

An unnecessary act of aggression

I had heard worrying news, dear readers: Over on the relaunched Parody Files, they claim to use the phrase "fire-spewing" more than any other blog. Being my annoying self, I intent to challenge them on this. Of course, there are several flaws to this masterful, entirely necessary plan.
 1) I'm lazy. So very lazy.
 2) I'm easily distracted, sidetracked, and bribed. As such, I have already forgotten the start of this blog
 3) Seriously. I don't remember what I was talking about, and I'm too lazy to re-read one paragraph.
 4) Was it about Starlings? I think it may have been...
 5) OK, I hired a homeless man to re-read the blog to me, and I'm back on track. My third 5th problem is that they have 5 writers to my one. They may also be funnier than me, but I was too lazy to read their bios, so they could be unfunny, or tinpot dictators. This leaves me at a distinct disadvantage. But really, who cares. I'm not serious, I'm just being a dick about strangers.
 If anyone wishes to issue me a challenge over the use of words, I accept!

Oh, and can someone send help? The tramp is still here. He keeps winking at me and rubbing his nipples... I hope he doesn't breath fire...

None power...

The power was down, my outer defenses penetrated and my guard bears distracted by bees and honey and other such strange things. Without power, of course, the electric fence didn't work. Worse still, without power, the electric doorbell didn't work. By this, I do not mean the electricity made the doorbell ding, I instead mean the electricity ensured a high current of power flowing over the doorbell, electrocuting would-be ringers. Now, though, it would not. As such, I could now hear the ominous chimes of said bell, chimes that I had grown to fear and long-term readers had began to hate as a clunky literary tool.
 So, it was with terror, and a little interest, I went to see what kind of salesman would brave what I had thought to be my impenetrable defenses.
 On my doorstep, two nuns. One was short, fat and jolly looking, and the other taller and carrying a suitcase. While they were not altogether repulsive, they were clearly real nuns, not those sexy ones you see taking their clothes off at parties, or on the Internet.
 The nuns talked for several minutes. Apparently, they were selling candy door-to-door to make money, so their convent could afford a trip to Lourdes. The candy, held in the tall nun's case, looked rather good, so I bought some and bid them good day. I returned to my sofa, nibbling on the candy and musing on how the nuns had bypassed my extensive security. After a few minutes, I began to wonder if I actually had any extensive security. It's entirely possible I imagined it on one of my acid trips. I'm not even sure if the nuns were real.
 The candy tastes and looks a lot like lego...

So, it looks like I'm going back to jail.

For the last few weeks, I've been carrying out a little project of mine: Essentially, it's my marketing pilot for a reality T.V show. Essentially again, I've kidnapped 10 members of the public, locked them in my basement, and drugged them up with opiates. Step two of this plan is to spraypaint a bunch of wild animals, some trained ones, and occasionally, hired kids and midgets in costumes, who roam the streets and countrysides. After a few days of psychological manipulation, I release my captured, drugged 'stars' into the word, having convinced them they're in a Pokemon-esq world, and to win my show, they must become the best trainer ever! Of course, each gets their own starting Pokemon, choosing from: A fire extinguisher tied to a turtle; a tortoise with a conifer attached to its back; or a child in a dragon costume, armed with a flamethrower.
 Unfortunately, as you can imagine, the plan was not a rousing success. At first, things went well: My stars, caught up in the moment, encouraged their adorable animal or animal-like thing to beat another adorable animal, animal-type thing, or passer-bye, half to death. Of course, after this beating, they should capture said thing in a mechanical ball with shrinking powers. In real life, however, this doesn't work. It was not long before Eddie - a popular contestant, and the bookmakers favourite - was arrested for setting an orange Rottweiler on someone's grandfather, then throwing painted tennis balls at him.
 Indeed, the whole project was a disappointment - most of the animals died due to the painting process, the bears I let loose in the park are still at large, funding organised crime, and many, many people are dead or severely injured.
 I myself, despite covering my tracks well, was arrested for spraypainting a midget gray and injecting him with steroids.

Once again, I question the cultural relevance of this blog, but in my defense, Pokemon is still relatively popular, and reality TV is still largely stupid. Frankly, you should just be glad I didn't go for my original plan, Pokemon: Pocket molesters...

Green Dawn

"Go on, you'll like it."
 It was growing late when I first met the men before me. Huddled for warmth around the barrel, their faces illuminated in the green glow, they addressed me like MacBeth's three witches. Without witch talk, of course. And now, they were gathered around me, their leader holding out a spoon.
 "Go on." He said again. The green waste on the spoon glittered as a streetlight flickered on and off, and I caught sight of tenticles under sleeve.
 "Yes, you'll like it." Crowed the second.
 "Be like us." The third said, the words rasping from his beak
I took another look at the spoon. Of course, eating nuclear waste has many benefits, but I don't regret my choice. Shoving the mutant leader, I ran home. Behind me, I could hear them chase me in their mutant truck, eventually giving up when they found a midget to feed their radioactive soup to.

The doctor is in

I swung my legs back and forth idly. The doctor, under the guise of getting my test results, left about half an hour ago. I'm ill, you know. Headaches, back pain, hysterical pregnancy - the usual. So, ignoring years of man training (Ignoring illness in the hope it'll get better) I decided to visit the doctor. Of course, like everyone else in my fictional life, the doctor was dangerously insane. Having talked him out of preforming a lobotomy with a French Revolutionary guillotine he'd purchased from eBay, the doctor had carried out a few tests. Tests which mainly featured hitting me with a tiny hammer.
 The door opened. The doctor entered. I sat. Such was life. After a moment, he opened a chart, read it thoughtfully, flipped it shut and approached me.
 "Well Mr Jenkins," he began. I told him I wasn't Mr. Jenkins, but he went on anyway. "Well, I've got your tests back. You're going through the menapause Mr. Jenkins."
 I sighed. I was not going through the menapause. I know this because I've already gone through the menopause, and am also a man. Gathering my things, I ran for the door. But first, I took back my urine sample.
 I'm not comfortable about that man having my pee...

Failure!

Well, not entirely. To be honest, my heart wasn't fully in killing Max. Luckily, I knew he was actually quite resistant to electricity. He's always claimed it was because his mother was a kettle, but I have my doubts. Whatever the reason, an electric shock has little effect on Max, beyond making his hair stick up in an amusing fashion.

I took another look at the bone. Bones, I'll be honest, are not something I generally look at. Well, not human bones. Not human bones protruding from someone's elbow.
 "Run it past me again."
 "Well," Max began, "I was trying to fix the lamp. There were some bears, I think."
Max always said there were bears, and there seldom were. Frankly, as you regulars will know, I'd grown weary of Max's stupid antics long ago. I know that he's necessary - the comic sidekick; the light relief in this otherwise serious and depressing read - but for several days, I'd been trying to kill him. Not seriously, it was more like a cry for help. Mainly, I'd been putting bees in his house - I'd filled a wardrobe in his spare room with them, and hidden some in his favourite cereal. So far, I'd had little success. Apparently, bees can't survive well in the cold, and Max's heating had broken the other day. But I digress...
 "Well, let's have a look then."
I took a look at his arm... Slowly, an idea formed.
 "It needs an X-ray, I think. You know on t.v, when someone gets an electric shock?" (Max nodded that he did indeed know of this.) "Well, we can do the same thing with a toaster. That'll let us get a look at that bone."
Max nodded enthusiastically, and headed off to wash his hands and get a knife. I smiled diabolically to myself.