Archive for Filth

Declaring War On Arse Terrorism

Posted in Random Shit That Gives Me The Cunt with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , on May 31, 2010 by Buck Frain

Pants. They’re great. One leg in each side, pull up, fasten – BOOM – you’re clothed. Girls, you may require something more. But seriously, they are a pretty simple thing, right? I love pants. They cover and protect while allowing freedom of movement, and the many different varieties of colour, fabric, style and design provide something for every taste and occasion. So, how the fuck does it come to pass that not being able to wear them properly should become cool? Why is every gormless nob-end, usually with haircut requiring 3 hours work per day just to keep it looking like a spontaneously gang-raped dog carcass, wearing their pants below their arse cheeks now? WHAT THE FUCK DID I MISS HERE??? When I gave a shit about cool, it had some sort of meaning to it. I didn’t necessarily buy into it but at least I could understand. Not being able to put on a pair of pants is just stupid. It just makes you look like a complete fucktard. I mean, you’re not more attractive with 4 inches of your manky underpants on show to the world.


Aside from the aesthetic repugnance of this devolution of human achievement, wearing pants like this doesn’t make life easier. Movement is restricted and one has to widen one’s stance to the ridiculous in order to keep the pants on, thus undermining one of the many great features of pants, i.e. they automatically stay on until you want to take them off. These cunts walk like they’ve just shat themselves and if they ever had cause to run they’d lose the pants in a second and either have to run holding them up (impractical at best in case you’ve never had to run) or fall face first into the ground. IT’S FUCKING STUPID!!!

I’ve looked into the phenomenon and apparently it all started in the US where African American kids decided they’d get way more respect if they dressed like they were in prison. In prison you’re not allowed to have a belt because you might hang yourself with it or maybe even use it to hurt someone else so it follows that prisoners’ pants don’t fit so well. OK, so I understand the origin. I even get that stupid kids think it’s cool to emulate criminals, however, at least some of the African American kids have the good grace to cover their ill-fitting pants with long t-shirts that cover their arses…and can also, incidentally, be conveniently used to conceal weapons. Sadly, dumbfuck Aussie white kids have once again completely missed any point that might have been there. They twat around in designer clothes their Liberal-voting mum paid for, they never carry guns and they wear short shirts to advertise the fact that their only statement to the world is fail pants. It’s completely fucked. And then to add insult to injury they add a belt to the ensemble. A CUNTING BELT!!! For fuck’s sake, the only purposes belts serve are to keep your pants above your hips or  to put holsters, handcuffs or superhero shit on, which will pull your pants down if you don’t have them on properly.

Having pants that don’t fit says:

  • a) I’m poor
  • b) I’m just out of jail where I did hard time as a large man’s wife and/or
  • c) I’m armed, fuck you!

Having pants that look like they should fit, are assisted by a belt but still sit below your arse cheeks says:

  • a) I’m intellectually disabled and my carer didn’t help me after I went to the toilet
  • b) I’m a mindless follower of a consumer culture I don’t understand and/or
  • c) I’m so unredeemably shit as a person that I like deliberately getting simple things wrong to complicate my pointless existence, you should grab me by my stupid hair and fling me down the nearest flight of stairs or into the path of the nearest oncoming train!

Why does it offend me? What? You mean apart from it being both ugly and stupid? You mean you need more? Well here it is: these miscreants sit on public transport and everywhere else in their underpants. That’s right. Stinky undies right on a seat that I have to share. The pants are so low they don’t get sat on! What, your designer jeans cost so much you don’t want to wear them out by sitting on them?  GET FUCKED!!! Put some cunting clothes on. Do you think you’re so beautiful that strangers want to see your arse or maybe even share its contents? YOUR MUM WAS BEING NICE!!! You’re not cool, you’re not hot, you’re a useless, ugly cunt! For shit’s sake, cover your stinking arse! Your pants are supposed to go there. They’re not just for you, they’re a barrier for everyone else against your e-coli and convict jizz. If you’re not wearing them over your arse there’s no point wearing them at all. It’s what they’re there for – THEY’RE MADE TO COVER YOUR ARSE!!!

Stupid sagging pants fuckhead.

In the end this amounts to nothing less than Arse Terrorism. I believe it’s a campaign of terror by fetishists who like to put their dirty arses on other people’s things and I cannot tolerate it any longer. I urge everyone to take action against these purveyors of ugliness, stupidity and disease. Whenever and wherever you see them with their stupid arses, or strangely often lack-of-arse, hanging out over pants that have been forgotten at half-mast, I urge you all: kick them! Punch them! Throw the remains of your coffee on them! Push them into traffic! Set them on fucking fire!

The only way these arse terrorists will learn to wear pants properly is if it becomes vital for their survival. We have to draw a line, and let’s face it, people with their pants half down can’t fucking chase you so fuck ’em, you get a free shot!

11 Shit Things That Make Share-House Living Suck – #7

Posted in 11 Shit Things That Make Share-house Living Suck. with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on October 14, 2008 by Buck Frain

#7 Other People’s Genitals

 

I don’t have issues with nudity per se. I think streakers at sporting events are funny and I’m cool with the genitals of anyone I’m intimate with. However, other people are another matter altogether. I am OK with other people having genitals just so long as they’re not flapping around at eye level when I’m sitting in the kitchen trying to eat my breakfast.

 

What the weeping-nob-scab is wrong with people? So, you picked up my house-mate last night and brought her back to a house you’ve never been to before inhabited by people you’ve never met and in the morning you wander out through the kitchen in search of the loo…naked. Nice one! And then you look at me like I’m the one with the problem and ask:

 

What are you lookin’ at?

 

I don’t know, fuckhead, is it a bonsai penis? I was worried you were going to try to fuck my breakfast with it!

 

Seriously, what are you doing? Do you have super-complex underpants that take 3 hours and a Ph.D to put on? Use a fucking towel, arse-face!!! In an ideal world one might hope that girls would have more modesty, however, I haven’t really seen any evidence of that.

 

What are you doing here?

 

I live here. I’m eating my breakfast. The toilet’s that way…um…you’re dripping on the fucking floor.

 

One morning I walked out to see a naked guy sitting with his naked arse on one of our chairs at the kitchen table eating our fucking cereal. What the SHIT??? I don’t mind too much about the cereal but how can I use a kitchen chair that’s had some fucker’s sweaty nut-sack and unwashed ring resting on it? Do I disinfect it or just throw the fucking thing away?

 

Inhibitions – they’re great! We have them for a reason. We have them because we aren’t solitary animals, we live in societies and these have only maintained a semblance of order and civility because people covered their genitals up and stopped scent-marking everything in sight. I’m stoked that you’re comfortable with your hairy, hail-damaged body, but do me a favour: COVER IT UP!!! No, really, take this guest burkha! Not because I have issues with my own body, not because I won’t be able to control my primal urges but because I can’t eat and vomit at the same time and I can’t spend my whole life buying new dining furniture.

11 Shit Things That Make Share-House Living Suck – #5

Posted in 11 Shit Things That Make Share-house Living Suck. with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on October 6, 2008 by Buck Frain

#5. Bermuda Triangle Shelf, Permaculture Fridge.

 

This is where my food lives…temporarily. Permaculture Fridge is a living entity. It has a dense fertile undergrowth starting in the crisper – has anything ever gotten crisper by being put in this device? It seems like an invention designed to do the opposite, to reduce vegetable matter to a sweaty sludge in as little time as possible. This undergrowth lends the whole fridge a rainforesty dankness and creeps green tendrils up into the body of the fridge. The shelves bear the congealed dribbles of meals long gone. There are numerous sauces, cling-film-covered meals that weren’t any good when fresh and that have long since faded into the dusty recesses of the addled memories of their creators. These are a definite danger, they all potentially contain massive fungal blooms as well as bacterial specimens that would be more-rightly at home in a biological weapons laboratory.

 

These are objects of warning, talismans to protect any genuine food from evil spirits or opportunistic house-mates – borrowers – there are also distractions like a naked, dried piece of cheese or a dessicated half-onion. The Borrowers are a special breed of carrion-feeding share-house inhabitants. They never buy their own food, they borrow other people’s, their name aquired from their most popular excuse on the rare occasions they actually get caught pilfering house-mates’ food. Hey, I was just borrowing it, I didn’t think you’d mind.  Always delivered in a completely dead-pan manner with a vaguely aggrieved tone that aims to suggest that their captor is being unbelievably petty and materialistic. If necessary, they’ll follow up with a Relax, man, it’s just a piece of chicken, I’ll buy you another one, jeez! Yeah, sure they will, don’t be fooled it’ll never happen.

 

The great paradox of Permaculture Fridge is that for something that looks as though it’s been abandoned for centuries and is waiting to be discovered by archaeologists, it requires constant monitoring by the borrowers. This is necessary for their own survival, for although they are a hardy species, if they let their monitoring lapse they may well eat an expired talisman by mistake and poison themselves. If only the rest of us could be that lucky but the crafty fuckers are on their game. You can’t leave anything in there without it, or at least a part of it, disappearing – especially if it’s left on my shelf, Bermuda Triangle Shelf.

 

The complete disappearance is most common on Bermuda Tringle Shelf, one minute it’s there, next time you open the fridge voomp! it’s gone – never to be seen again unless you check the bin or the recycling. Beer is always one of the first things to be sucked away into the void. The partial disappearance is the more insidious as it not only reduces one’s food supply but also assumes a level of stupidity by the borrower responsible who doesn’t think I’ll notice my food disappearing bite-by-bite, or that I may attribute it to natural causes. Hmm…I suppose it is conceivable that there are a new breed of cold-resistant mice that live in Permaculture Fridge. I, however, being a cynical fucker, tend to think that it’s more likely some stinking fucking hippy stealing my food. I will fucking get you one day, Borrowers, ONE FUCKING DAY!!!

 

 

* For those who came in late: I no longer live in a share-house, this series is a retrospective. As I’ve mentioned previously,  I now live alone – like other people would put up with me, are you kidding? The reason I am sharing my loathing of the whole share-house situation is outlined in the first post of the series. I only mention this to save you the indignity of commenting on the post as if it refers to my current life which it doesn’t, or as if everything I mention were happening in one particularly cuntful house rather than being the biggest annoyances from a number of share-house experiences. Also, to Peter, if you’re still reading: get fucked!

11 Shit Things That Make Share-House Living Suck – #3

Posted in 11 Shit Things That Make Share-house Living Suck. with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on September 26, 2008 by Buck Frain


#3. Bio-hazard Bathroom

Let me make this clear: I am not a clean freak. I’m not like the former emergency room nurse I lived with for a while who used to disinfect everything including the walls on a daily basis. Incidentally, she was great, I never lived in a house so clean – it’s just a shame she was also a paranoid schizophrenic, we were on a good wicket for a while.

I am realistic – I get that there is dirt and I tolerate it in moderation but seriously, what the chewed-off-piss-flaps is wrong with people? Why do these pigs insist on living in their own filth? It makes me want to vomit in their beds, and I mean a really good cheese-fondue-and-red-wine vomit that stains and stinks with equal power. Fuck it – the bathroom is where you come to get clean. When the floor of the shower is slick with a layer of – what the shit is that? Algae? – when black mould is climbing up the soap-crusted glass of the shower screen, it’s just revolting. How can I get clean in filth? It’s impossible. 

I try anyway but when I reach for the soap I see it is covered with pubes. Not just one or two, although that would be bad enough, but fucking hundreds of them. Is there actually any soap underneath? I don’t fucking know I’m just trying not to throw up. The Soap Pube Bandit has struck again. It bewilders me how anyone can lose this many pubes regularly. Does one of my house-mates have cancer? The bastard better fucking well die from it if they’re going to keep being such a filthy maggot. Surely you can see the pubes when you put the soap back in its dish! I wouldn’t mind if it wasn’t my  soap. Buy your fucking own, you cunting great shit-smeared gorilla! I’d buy shower gel except I can’t find one with a lockable lid to prevent wasteful borrowers from using half the bottle in one day. How dirty can you possibly get? What the fuck needed that much lathering? No, no, don’t answer that!!! 

The shower is just a part of it. There’s the scum-tide rings in the bath, there’s the dribbly nob. Most houses have a dribbly nob. Someone who just can’t get all their piss in the toilet bowl. I’m not talking about the occasional incidence of a house-mate being too rat-arsed to aim straight, although that too is pretty offensive – How did you get piss there? Were you lying down? – I’m talking about the guy who lets the last dribble of piss land on the floor just in front of the bowl. He does it every single time and when do I become aware of it? At 3am when I drowsily stumble barefoot into the bathroom and awaken myself by stepping in someone else’s cold urine. WHAT THE CUNT IS WRONG WITH YOU? ARE YOU 80 YEARS OLD??? DIE, YOU STINKING FUCKER, DIE!!! 

But it never ends, there’s the chalky layer of spat toothpaste speckled with beard stubble in the hand basin – what the fuck? Then, has someone been using my toothbrush? What sort of ballbag uses someone else’s toothbrush? Can’t you tell the difference between them? Aren’t the primary colours and variations in design and bristle pattern vivid enough distinctions? Excuse me, do you have Hepatitis C?

Quick fact: Hey, filth-mongers, you can get Hep C from sharing a toothbrush and there is NO cure for it!

Have you used my razor as well? It was brand new and now it’s duller than Peter Costello‘s autobiography. Let’s hope you don’t have HIV either, you cock-rotting fucktard! Yes, there are lots of things you can get from sharing razors and most people don’t demand blood tests from the people they share houses with but perhaps they should – when you think about it seriously the stakes are pretty damn high. So, how did you get HIV? Unprotected, anonymous bum sex? Oh no, I once shared a house with a complete cunt! 

The stand-off between pigs and bitches reaches fever pitch in the bathroom. This can be the room where the battle is lost or won. It’s personal and the stakes are very high, it will provoke many a lively discussion but if the players are stubborn and no-one gives it can be the deciding factor in people leaving a house. 

I fucking refuse to share my bathroom with pigs. I live on my own, I’m happy and clean and I don’t take my life in my hands every time I use the shitting bathroom!

11 Shit Things That Make Share-House Living Suck.

Posted in 11 Shit Things That Make Share-house Living Suck. with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on September 17, 2008 by Buck Frain

 

If it wasn’t bad enough that I have had to endure the indignity of disability and the smug, well-humoured Hoh hoh, what have you done to yourself?s  that go along with it, I had a particularly malignant acquaintance capitalise on my misfortune in order to prove his bullshit neo-hippy thesis that my living alone makes me an elitist fuck and that I should get over my self-importance and live in a share-house like a real person, thus helping save the planet by being more economical with energy and water and, of course, breaking less crockery by having house-mates who’d do the dishes.

 

Peter,

Fuck you! You are a complete cunt! If I thought I could get away with it I would chop your head off and stuff it in your fucking worm farm, you patronising perma-culture-shit-freak. Everyone hates you, did you know that? Everyone at work also suspects you are a chronic masturbator because you always look vaguely sweaty and glassy eyed and you’re too anal to just be stoned at work. In addition, you know how you shagged Emma from accounts after the Christmas party? And how you bragged about it like a complete wank-stain? She told me and Shane that you couldn’t get it up, and that then you cried and said it was because you’d really fancied her for ages and you were just overwhelmed by the moment. Ha ha ha ha ha!!! She told us this the next night at the pub and since then we’ve been gradually shopping the tale around to everyone, that’s why the new girls always smile at you! Ah, you suck!

DON’T EVER TALK TO ME AGAIN OR I’LL BURN YOUR FUCKING HOUSE DOWN!!!

 

Sorry. Back to my point. Peter had made me really angry. How dare he suggest I go back to share-house life? I beat the nightmare of shared accommodation and I vowed never to go back. The more I thought about how much of a cunt Peter is and why I hate share-house living, the more reasons I found to stick to my guns. So for your entertainment, in no particular order I will share 11 Shit Things That Make Share-House Living Suck.

 

#1 Pigs, Bitches & Dishes Berserker.

 

OK, so that’s three shit things. I only really wanted to talk about dishes berserker but in order to do that it’s important that everyone understand the nature of pigs and bitches.

 

In a perfect world the inhabitants of a share-house would distribute household duties evenly between them, there would be no need of rosters, reminders, snide remarks or passive-aggressive notes. It would be an anarchic utopia where the people would organize themselves and live in equitable harmony. I imagine most people who have endured shared accommodation will have found that life is rarely so idyllic.

 

In my experience every share-house has a pig. This is the dirtiest person in the house and they will determine the dirt level the rest of the occupants have to endure unless a bitch can be found. A bitch is anyone who’s filth tolerance is lower than their resistance to becoming everyone else’s mum. They will end up cleaning up everyone else’s crap because they can’t stomach living in an open sewer. Pigs prey on this characteristic and wait it out until the bitch reveals themselves. They don’t necessarily enjoy living in filth, they just have an aversion to cleaning. The bitch mantle once earned is hard to shed.

 

If no bitch appears, sooner or later  the house runs out of dishes which presents a problem. In my experience this precipitates a discussion in which everyone eventually agrees to take turns at doing the dishes, whilst secretly hoping that a bitch can still be found. So a stand-off develops, the dishes pile up and no-one does them until there are no more and every surface of the kitchen is covered in dirty, smelly, crusted-up dishes, then the person whose turn it is relents and does dishes berserker*. That is, unless they’re on tour in Queensland for a month with their stupid band like a total cunt, in which case the remaining occupants have to fight it out amongst themselves.

 

I fucking hate doing the dishes. I don’t imagine there are too many people who truly love it but it’s one of many things that really shits me off. Unfortunately, I also really despise dirt. I make a strong distinction between dirt and mess. I don’t mind a place being a bit messy and other people’s things lying around as long as it’s not dirty (within reason, of course – don’t leave your rubber fist on the coffee table no matter how clean it is, that’s just wrong). Dirt is disgusting, but as much as I hate dirt, I’m fucked if I’ll just lie down and be bitch just because the cock-rotting fuck-pigs I live with have no sense of domestic hygiene. Dishes berserker is completely fucked and so are pigs and bitches.

 

*Dishes Berserker is so called because it is a truly epic undertaking. Where doing the dishes for anyone in a normal household takes 10-15 minutes, dishes berserker can cover the entire tracklist of three CDs and still leaves in its wake another, potentially more hazardous, problem.

Winning The War On Bones.

Posted in Things Rank And Gross In Nature with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on June 28, 2008 by Buck Frain

We win! Australia, the little battler, has won – against insurmountable odds we fought hard to be leading the world in obesity! Yeah, We’re the fattest cunts in the world! Fuck you, USA, you can eat our convict shit, we’re fatter than you bastards! 26% of all Aussies are obese, that’s four million of us – a 33% rise in obesity in the last nine years. Fat Aussies have been gorging their pie-holes for the last nine years to top the USA’s puny 25% obesity rate. Yeah, they’ve got more fatties in total, but per capita we have the most cottage-cheese-arsed, cankled, wheezing behemoths of any nation on the planet! 

 

Doesn’t anybody find any of this remotely offensive? I don’t mean my ruthless attack on the fatties, I mean isn’t anyone offended by the rampant epidemic of bloatedness? We see it everywhere. My two bosses, The Wobblers, are both horrendously obese shit-sacks. Many of the people in the building I work in have Office Body*, you only have to walk down the street to realise that most people are packing some weight, thin people are a serious minority. 

 

But we’re all polite about it – everyone knows the pain of the fatty, Oprah’s made us oh-so aware of the torture it is to be fat. No one wants to point out to their friends or co-workers Hey, you’re becoming a bit of a chunk, should you be eating that? Woe betide the heathen who dared say such a hurtful thing. You insensitive bastard, it’s genetic, his whole family is like that. Um…but he’s eaten two pizzas today…are you sure that’s genetic? 

 

You see, I think that’s part of the problem – it’s politically correct to tell people they’re drinking too much, or that they should quit smoking, but we’re in denial about obesity. You mustn’t tell the fatty they’re fat, they might feel bad about themselves and eat more! Yeah, I know, the fuckin’ fat cunt might eat YOU, you’re just scared! For fuck’s sake, tell her from a distance, the fat fuck won’t be able to chase you for long. 

 

Now before all you fatties out there start sending me death threats, I’d like to point out I’m not advocating everyone need have chiseled abs and cheekbones or plastic surgery themselves to look like Paris Hilton, that’s just another disgusting sickness. What I’m saying is: take physical responsibility for yourself. Be a bit healthy.

  

No-one wants to walk down a street and see a piss-pants drunk sitting there boozing himself into oblivion, nor do you want to see junkies shooting up nor sex addicts jerking themselves off in public. Why not? Because it’s offensive. Obese people are killing themselves with food. I find it offensive to see some filthy, fat pig scoffing into a Big Mac. Most people will walk past keeping their revulsion private but everyone finds it unsettling, even if only on a well-trained, unconscious level. It turns my stomach and I can’t understand why it is no longer acceptable to acknowledge that offensiveness. Even the most compassionate soul has to concede that, on a purely pragmatic level, it’s a massive a waste of resources. On a planet with billions of people barely surviving, these fat turds eat enough each day for a whole family, and in a few years time they’re going to be a massive financial burden on an already strained health system. We all will be paying through the nose to save these fatties from themselves. Maybe they need a dose of reality rather than that second Double Quarter Pounder! YOU’RE FUCKIN’ FAT, FATTY!!! FATTY FAT FAT FAT!!! HAVEN’T YOU HAD ENOUGH FOOD, YOU STINKING FAT CUNT??? What? Chase me, fuckface!   

 

 

*Office Body – a phenomenon where, due to a lack of physical activity, chronic over-eating and a diet of shit, a person becomes overweight or obese and most of their muscles wither away except for a few fingers on the hand that operates their computer mouse. See also Internet Body, Playstation Body or Lazy Fat Cunt.

 

Paw Paw Pocket Protection.

Posted in Things Rank And Gross In Nature with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on June 11, 2008 by Buck Frain

 So Nick D’arcy has been banned from the Beijing  Olympic Games once again. Thank fuck for that! The little fucker’s lucky his dad’s a fucking plastic surgeon or he wouldn’t be able to afford all the lawyers, and he’s appealing again. What do the poor violent athletes do? How do they cope? 

My joy at justice actually working was short-lived, however. I had a $2 bet with a co-worker that D’Arcy would be allowed to go. I was glad to lose the bet but I reached into my left trouser pocket where I keep my keys and coins and pulled out a handful of Oh fucking hell! Horror. Both mine and hers as I proffered a fist full of keys and coins clumped together thick with the lip-balm that had evidently suffered a packaging failure in the same pocket. Our eyes met and for a fraction of a second I think she actually believed I was being premeditatedly weird. I exited stage left to the bathroom with all appropriate haste and stealth. Please, don’t let The Wobblers see me with a fist full of lubricated keys!

 

In the bathroom I started using paper towel to soak up, wipe away the lip balm. Fuck! There was so much of it. One little tube of Lucas’ Paw Paw goes a fuck of a long way. After scraping all the excess grease of my hands, keys and change I had to wash them with soap to remove the rest of it. I recommend Lucas’ Paw Paw Ointment for its staying power. Three or four washes got them more or less clean, the keys still feel a little more moisturised than keys should. I looked in the mirror. Cunt, bollocks and shit! The pocket! I remembered I still had a pocket full of warm grease. I remembered it because I saw that it had fucking soaked through to make a vaguely cummy-looking grease stain on the front of my pants. I turned the pocket inside out and scraped as much lip balm as I could out of the fabric. The greasy stain I was stuck with. I couldn’t risk getting busted washing and drying my pants in the bathroom, not at work.

 

I returned to the phone room. I paid my debt with the cleanest coins seen outside the mint and went back to work. I’ve spent the rest of the day trying not to notice the faces of people as they notice my stain. Fuckin’ dirty pants-starers! Looks of disdain and disgust, I’m sure tales of my depravity and perversion will fill my foul workplace for months to come. IT’S NOT CUM, YOU FILTHY-MINDED BASTARDS!!! IT’S ON THE LEFT, HOW WOULD I CUM IN MY OWN POCKET??? IT’S LIP-BALM!!! IT FUCKIN’ BROKE OPEN IN MY CUNTING POCKET! YES, IT’S GROSS! I SHITTING WELL HATE IT TOO!!!

 

I should make clear this is not a sledge on a product and that I will continue to use the same lip-balm, it’s good. The truly fucking horrible  thought is that I might have to invest in a man bag to avert future such misadventures. A cunting man bag – ah, I might as well just cut off my own balls! It’s all cunts! I think I’m getting sick. I hate my life.