#average cleric L yeah

[katyspersonal]

I find it very ironic how the same cultish looser that shuns people based on who they're friends with because she genuinely thinks if you believe something you can't have human interactions or treatment to those who believes otherwise..... will preach hard and proud against harassment for people's headcanons, ships and takes whereas being friends with the person who did harass people's headcanons, ships and takes. But why rules are always only for their victims and never for them? What's so hard about following what you preach? Go ahead, disown this person and be mean to everyone who still likes them and want to give them a chance, you SHOULD by the terms that YOU'VE chosen! But you won't, you'll rather cover their ass and pretend you haven't seen the evidence, to save the face, because should you ever admit a mistake you'll explode from the notion of not being so "holy". PEAK L0garius and Alfred behavior.

[pkmnsdarkqueen]

Mun talks about her D&D characters for munday

I thought it’d be fun to let ya’ll hear about them. Also I know a ton of them start with L names, I’m sorry and I don’t know how this happened. 

Lokni-Human Blood Hunter (TW: death, demons, sex, child neglect, pregnancy complications) Life goal: To kill Raktos the demon  Campaign: Ravnica

The current favorite of my friends who I’ve played a few games with. Personally I think he has one of the most tragic backstories but I had to give him an intense one cause he has a very dramatic goal. The campaign is set in Ravnica which for those who don’t know is a setting where most things take place in a large city where power is divided by guilds. My child is in the Raktos guild which is the ones who throw parties put on shows, and run the brothels. Thing is they also kinda murder folks alot, live on the idea of viva la anarchy and they do this to keep their guild leader, a massive demon happy so he doesn’t end the world. Now that you’re caught up his story goes as follows. He was born to two parents, things were great, his mom got preggers, she was out with her husband and got dragged into a Raktos show cause they do that, she was injured and basically it became either save her or her unborn child and he insisted on the child. Dad blames the kid for loosing his wife, neglects teh child, Lokni also a child adopts his dad’s mindset being confused and hurt, family friend of mom takes in unwanted child (she is a centaur by the way), Lokni realizes eventually his dad really doesn’t care about him either as dad slips further into insanity about wanting to bring his wife back, Lokni decides to go apologize to bro who instantly forgives to live with centaur mom. Later they are told their dad is dead getting mixed up with the wrong people (however based on hints from the dm I fear he is not dead and also fear when the dm brings him back). His goal as a character is this: He wants to make sure no family ever ends up ripped apart like his so he wants to kill Raktos and put someone else on the throne, not him cause he recognizes he is not emotionally stable enough to run anything. Although originally I was planning on making him more obsessive about his goals and basically become his dad, obsession and hurt drives people to crazy things, but he kinda ended up finding a 16 year old ghost girl in the woods who’s been stuck to possess a knife and basically was like,”well this child clearly has a rough time in life I’m gonna adopt them!” and fatherhood is forcing this man to rethink things cause murdering Raktos=major trouble and he doesn’t want to rip up this new family he’s making so now considering teleporting him away? changing him to be a good person? Yeh it’s getting complicated. OH and he was kind of forced to drink some potion stuff, cause his boss is crazy (she has a ghost choir that she possibly killed everyone there, complete with a kazoo section cause ya boi Lokni on a whim said it needed more kazoos and she listened to him cause he knows music, he plays the spoons and does magic tricks btw as a job, so clearly he knows what he’s talking about) and ye so he is a fox lycanthropy now.

Lapis Lazuil/Laz-Triton, Cleric.  Life goal: Literally be the best monster killer Campaign: Regular D&D 5e

Basically we had a D&D show we were filming at school up until things got too busy with the main show we were producing. This character came before Lokni and we were told,”hey so your characters are monster hunters at this guild but they’ve all kind of been kicked out of their former parties for one reason or another which ya’ll can decide and this is your last chance to stay in the guild.” Me: “cool imma make a triton that hates water, and their a tempest cleric.” Dm: “....why, why are you like this.” Me: “YOU SAID MAKE BAD DECISIONS!” So ye that’s how Laz was made. Her story is that she was adopted by rock genasi. She thinks her parents abandoned her. Truth is they just fell on hard times just before she was born and well couldn’t afford a child so did what they could now trying to find her. So she changed her birth name to be named after a rock like the rest of what she considers her real family. She also has the attitude of the stereotypical highschool cheerleader on disney movies and talks like one too but with a more raspy voice because she is dehydrated, again she hates water because of her hatred for her ‘real family’ and also she genuinely doesn’t like the way it feels,”It’s just liiiike the worst ya know, um like on my skin....yeah so don’t pass out in water or whatever cause like I probs won’t try to heal you....sorry not sorry.” That was literally her first line to the rest of the party. I now use her in one offs and like low key she is alot of fun. 

Luc-Pantoran (I forgot the class and the dm still has our character sheets cause thank you virus) Life goal: Clear their name! Campaign: Starwars 

So first of all funny thing about this one is that usually I have a gender and voice made pretty early into creating a character. With this person....I did not, like literally I got everything else figured out except these two details so I decided,”You know what! You don’t get either of them!” Their story went like this, they have 12 siblings ok, super rural regular family in the inner planets. All of their siblings are wildly successful and they were average. They knew they couldn’t really succeed like everyone else but hey did find themselves enjoying being a nuisance so basically when asked what they wanted to do with their life they would look up at the adult asking and just go,”Crime.” SO that’s exactly what they did. Once they became an adult they ran off, used sleeping with folks to get what and where they wanted, eventually joined a pirate crew, and life was great. They were so good, and kind of had a thing going with the captain that they became first mate. Pretty recently they realized they didn’t relate to either gender and became non binary, they also are still trying to figure out their voice so it would change rather often. Thing is they got framed for stealing from the captain, and hey they’ve done alot of bad but they HAVE NOT broken trust like that, after all they actually cared about the captain, and for once was considering being just with them instead of sleeping around. Nonetheless they are on the run now trying to clear their name. Their theme as a character is,”hey you know that little voice in your head that tells you not to do something, ye they don’t have that. Just a voice that says, do what ya wanna do pal!”

Clarity-Robot, vault dweller (Tw: death mention, human experimentation, dog experimentation) Life goal: Just see the world Campaign: Fall out

I love this character so much she is a baby however her theme is,”depending on perspectives people can come across as wildly different things.” So If you’ve played fall out no she’s not a Mr. Handy or one of the robots that looks incredibly human like. We decided an amalgamation of the two fit her story better and it was available in the unofficial fall out table top we were playing. She looks humanish, a human like form but with clear casing showing her inner workings and a human mask to try to look  more friendly. She’s got on a little yellow dress on too, very vintage, and with the sweetest most innocent sounding voice. She even travels with a Dalmatian who, as a robot could think of only the most appropriate name to describe her grizzled hound, Spot. As for fighting one arm can transform into a flame thrower and the other into a chain saw. Also as a robot she can not go against programming. She also makes comments such as,”I am overjoyed you will not become a plant!” “Oh no don’t pick flowers! I would hate to hurt the plant...” “Are you sure the grass will not mind if I step on it?” If you have played fallout you might know where this is going. Basically there are 2 vaults that are important, both of them are found over grown with plants one containing half human half plant monstrous creatures. Her story is that she was in the vault that laster holds the monstrous creatures. Her programming was to continue the experiment, the experiment to combine humans with plants in an attempt to improve upon humans. She could not tell the humans what she was doing, and she could not stop the experiment until it was complete. There were dogs there under her command to be used as experiments too or keep the plants in line. So the chain saw and flamethrower were to stop unruly plant monsters from attacking her and keep them in line until finally the order came that the experiment was over and she was no longer needed. So she left, secretly horrified by her actions attempting to avoid ever processing what she witnessed fully through her system. She wants to see the world for herself now with her dog friend. Again when people meet her she seems like a sweet angel going so far as to worry about even the feelings of plants, but for anyone who was in that vault they would see her as a very different person.

[mystisnykoto]

The Outsiders - Chapter 06

Doppelgangers

“F-fired!” Iris exclaimed, slamming her hands on the headmaster's desk. Iris stood aghast at what she had been told, in disbelief that the school would so easily and quickly fire one of their own. “I didn't do anything wrong! My performance has always been above average and I've never even taken a sick day!”

“We know that Aeslyn, but frankly it's your eehm... 'condition' that brings us to this decision,” spoke the headmaster, waving his hands to attempt at calming Iris. “We can't have you around the students in your present state, so unless you can somehow transfer back to your normal body, we have no choice but to let you go.”

“But what about when I was first hired? Did my condition then have no meaning?” questioned Iris, feeling as if there were something else at play.

“You looked 'normal' enough then that we could pass you off as being excessively pale. Honestly we'd have never looked to even hire you if not for your family name.” The headmaster stood to his feet, towering over Iris in her new form. “You look anything but human now, and you will not teach in this school while you are like this.” Iris sulked back into her seat, her lights pulsing in panic and fear as she looked to her superior.

“P-please, just give me some time!” begged Iris. “L-let the children know I'm on extended vacation, or not feeling well. Something! I love this job and working with the children, I don't want to lose it so quickly like this!” The headmaster sighed, rubbing his eyes and tugging back his hair. He considered the circumstances and what Iris had said, slumping heavily back to his chair.

“Fine... one week,” he replied. “You have one week to get yourself back to normal, or at least looking normal. I personally don't care if your human or crystal or robot under the surface, but we've an image to uphold at this campus, so your image should also reflect that as well.”

                                                                                                                       Ruri slowly brushed Omi's hair, gently tugging and teasing out some of the knots that littered her locks. Omi smiled happily, humming a soft tune in time with Ruri. The pair smiled together as Ruri brought Omi in for a tight hug.

“So, why did you run off into The Net without saying anything?” asked Ruri, pulling a tuft of hair back into a pigtail. Ruri tied a band around the pigtail while straightening it gently, trying to smooth out some of the static.

“I...” Omi started, biting to her lip softly as she collected her thoughts. “I... got a message from an old friend. They were saying that all of us older systems were hitting max data capacity, and some of our oldest memories would be corrupted and automatically deleted...” spoke Omi, her lip quivering while fumbling with her fingers. “I... wanted to make sure my data was logged and saved for certain, so I connected our system back to the network and went in to make a backup of my oldest data clusters.” Ruri smiled, pulling more of Omi's hair into a second pigtail then banding it tight.

“You don't have to feel so defensive honey,” giggled Ruri, pulling Omi back in tight. “Next time let us know, so we can all go in together, and that time have some secured data.” Omi chuckled softly, nuzzling her head back against Ruri.

“I'm sorry mo... Ruri, I'll say something about it next time,” Omi replied, closing her eyes as she sighed happily. “Do... you think we can go back inside soon? I-I have some data left that I need to upload.”

“Of course! We'll make plans to go back in once Iris comes home! But it may be a day or so before we go in, is that going to be okay?” asked Ruri, petting Omi's hair to get rid of the last bits of static. Omi smiled brightly, nodding happily in agreement.

                                                                                                                      A day had passed since the meeting her her headmaster, as Iris walked over the school grounds. Iris planned to speak with the headmaster, asking if she could fill in some clerical duties while trying to restore her body. Iris walked toward the schoolhouse, carefully hiding her face from onlookers as she tried her best to not draw attention to herself.

“Hey, did you hear that rumor about that rogue mammet?” one of the nearby staff members spoke.

“Yeah, some old digger thing is trying to pose as a teacher!” replied the other, speaking in loud whispers. “I heard it was only Aeslyn that had one, but she was saying that they could easily make more of other people too!” Iris glanced slightly toward the pair as they walked away. Her mouth sat agape in confusion at what she had overheard.

“I... I never said such a thing to anyone,” Iris spoke to herself under her breath, as she ran across the lawn toward the window to her old classroom. “I-I couldn't have! Who would have told them that?” Iris neared her classroom window, looking in to see her students sitting attentive at their desks. She stepped closer to the window at the rear of the room, out of view from any of the children inside. Walking closer, after the glare ceased reflecting into her eyes, she was able to make out the sight of their substitute teacher. However, instead of a random staff member, she stood to see herself in her midlander self at the head of the class.

“No... no no no...” Iris protested, quickly coming to a halt as she looked onward. The other Iris within the classroom continued her lesson, but after a moment, spotted Iris standing outside and flashed her a devious grin. Iris stepped back slowly, as the other Iris inside the room gave what looked to be a quick empty laugh while she returned her attention to the children. “This isn't happening...” Iris spoke as she rushed away, heading back across the lawn toward the exit to the campus as she overheard many other staff members talking to each other.

“Did you hear about the fake that is trying to take over Aeslyn?”

“I heard it's going to kidnap the kids and make them all mammets!”

“Glad to hear she's taking it so well, I'd be going nuts if I had a copy of me trying to take over my life.” “I say you scrap the fake thing on sight!”

“Don't let that copy near you.”

“Having a fake around like that would be the death of me.”

“That fake...”

“...fake... “...copy...”

“Scrap it and melt the core...”

“I'M NOT A FAKE!” Iris screamed, feeling like she had been going crazy and losing her mind. The yard went silent, as all eyes turned to look at her, seeing her android face markings and some of the glowing lights on her arms. She caught her breath and looked around, panic and fear quickly setting in as the staff members all spoke up about her.

“That's it! That's the fake!”

“Oh gods, the copy is here! What should we do!?”

Iris looked around, trying to gather her mind and bearings enough to find the exit. Looking behind her, spying the headmaster with several Sekiseigumi in tow, she readied her body to take off toward the exit at a moments notice.

“That's the fake, don't let it leave here!” the headmaster shouted, pointing and commanding the troupe of police.

Iris rushed as hard as she could toward the exit, her mechanical body carrying her faster than any normal being could keep pace with. Iris let her arms hang back, the flowing robe tearing off from her to reveal her glowing metal frame beneath. She leaped through the air, crashing passed a makeshift barricade pieced together by the security and Sekiseigumi.

                                                                                                                      Iris burst into her home, her robotic body not even winded by the intense escape.

“Ruri! Omi!” she shouted as she ran downstairs. “Sweetheart!? Where are you!?” Iris looked around in a panic, finding the home to be empty. “Oh gods did they get to them already?” Iris backed out and ran over to her workshop at the far end of the ward. “Gods be good, please be here...” Iris quickly dipped inside, closing and bolting the door behind her. “Ruri! Omi! Are you here?” Iris shouted again, hearing noises from the basement.

“Yes honey! Downstairs!” Ruri shouted back. Iris rushed to the computer, seeing Ruri and Omi making preparations to head inside. “Oh, hi honey! Omi was just getting things ready so we would have secured data inside this... what's wrong?” asked Ruri, seeing the panic on her wife's face.

“You didn't tell anyone about this place did you?” asked Iris, looking over Ruri and Omi. They both shook their heads, looking over Iris with concern and a growing panic as well.

“N-no... I haven't told anyone of this place,” replied Ruri. “We agreed not to so no one would find the computer and do bad things with it... why?” asked Ruri, her lip quivering in fear noticing her wife's panic.

                                                                                                                      Several red drones floated overheard, while a large crew investigated the dim panel at the center of the chamber.

“Footage and reports state the three used this as their method of escape,” spoke a man with glowing orange lines. “One was hit with the script, but was somehow able to still make their exit from The Network. Are... these three Outsiders? Are they here to reboot the system?”

“We'll see...” growled a metallic voice, as glowing red eyes peered over their shoulder at the orange-lined man.

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[no-ns-en-si-ca-l]

Some Moments Leading up to This One • Christina Catherine Martinez

RATS

At some point the rats got out of control. Our parents purchased the rats from a guy who bred them in buckets of wood shavings in his garage. We surveyed the containers like they were windows full of puppies. The little pink and white things wriggling around in them were to be our pets. That they were bred to be food for larger pets belonging to families moving in more robust circles of economic activity did not occur us children. 

COPS

My father was mildly obsessed with cops, tried several times to become one—making circles on practice tests for the written exam, making circles on the dirt track of the Sherriff’s training academy behind our house—but there was always some clerical snafu or abstruse psychological red flag (one question they ask is whether or not you turn around to look at your waste before flushing the toilet. Apparently there is a wrong answer to this). On rainy days my brothers and I slurped ramen noodles and watched the police documentary series COPS on Fox 11. Matthew lived next door and was a couple years younger than me. His parents told him he was too young to watch the show, but he pleaded them into the odd compromise of watching the title sequence only, which succored him enough to stalk the neighborhood with a nerf gun singing the theme song, bad boys, bad boys, over and over under his breath. 

We were home schooled and Matthew was not. Every morning, around the time my mom began clearing up the breakfast dishes and herding us together to begin the day's work, I would see Matthew's little face inch past the living room window in his grandmother's big white Cadillac. I can’t remember if she lived with them or not, but she was always around, functioning as part chauffeur, part babysitter, and all around emotional punching bag for this supremely unhappy family (the entire second story of their house was added on as a private bedroom suite for mom). Every afternoon my brothers and I returned to the window just in time to see the white car pull up to their tight, golf-ready lawn and watch Matthew's backpack sail through the passenger-side window, followed shortly by Matthew himself. He yelled and spat and kicked papers and shit all over the lawn, without fail, every school day. It was such a treat. I credit this daily theater with planting the seed of skepticism in my attitude toward institutions, and I suppose by extension, to anyone in uniform.

Still, as committed members a religious suburban community, of some of my parents' closest friends were officers of the law. Not the slack-jawed, double-chinned avatars of male torpor, but sweet, boar-bristle ‘stached men with bright eyes and prematurely creased foreheads. The kind earned from continually raising brows at things children say. Especially children who don't go to regular school. Dad stopped trying to become a cop after noticing their off-duty penchant for K-Swiss sneakers and Hawaiian shirts. 

Eventually, between the hours of 12 and 6 am, between backseat blow jobs and furtive jam sessions, I would run into these men. A tense skein of trust evolved as they circled the perimeter of my adolescence; tapping the glass, raising their eyebrows, and waiving me home. I lived in cars, but I was no good at it. I wondered what separated me from the subjects on COPS, who also just wanted to hang out but invariably, somehow, ended up face down on the sidewalk. I asked Gonzo what his rules of thumb were for letting girls off with a warning. He was immune to crying and pleas of period emergencies, but once, upon pulling over a swerving vehicle and finding a woman covered in exploded burrito, he did let her go. Gonzo is a close family friend, and I was convinced that he was the greatest cop that ever lived. 

Years later I asked him why, at tender age of thirty five-ish, he left the po-po biz to become a teacher. He said he didn't like kind of person it was turning him into. 

PUBLIC SCHOOL

For a radical experiment in parenting, try this: take a feral child (who loves Jesus), strap it to a translucent purple backpack, and place it in a structured learning environment. Years later— 

APPLES

A lot of our games were about dying. The best, by far, was the night we tried to enact as many stock movie death scenes as possible without laughing. We were just hanging out. Someone was on the floor, and then Nadal starting noodling something sad on the piano, and then it kind of took off from there. We played a swan song for a gritty, browbeaten cop with a heart of gold (a peculiar trope, and, as I learned years later after experiencing the privilege of transatlantic flight, a particularly American one). We slipped through the hands of an action hero clinging helplessly to his buddy dangling off the edge of a cliff. Grenades crashed all around as Paul and I played out a lost cause on the battlefield. I cradled Paul's head in my arms, taking his shirt in a vice grip and screaming, “Don't you die on me soldier!" and then, for context, finessing a line about how he can't die, because he never taught me his secret gumbo recipe. Paul gasped for air, phantom blood filling his throat and mouth. It dribbled down his chin, sputtered off his lips and onto my shirt. Everyone clapped their hands over their mouths to keep from laughing. Just before his eyes rolled back in his head and his neck went limp, Paul pulled me close and whispered in a Cajun accent, "Don't forget the nutmeg,

mon ami....

" I brushed my fingertips over his eyes to close them. At this final touch, we could hold it no longer. Everyone burst laughing, crying, chugging beers, and yelling

ok, now me! me and you!

As the only girl, more than once I resorted to my privileged trope of peaceful cancer girlfriend. I'd stroke whoever's face very softly and whisper sweet platitudes about Finding New Love and how I Will Always Be With You. The beloveds raspberried in my face with laughter, and then we'd all drink some more. I died at least five times. We drank, the piano lolled on, we laughed until the laughter turned to honking chest rattles because we hadn't quit smoking yet. The roleplay kept going. In high school we'd made exclamations of love to one or more of one another. We filched wine and read e.e. cummings by candlelight, smoked weed and listened to records, made out in the McDonald’s PlayPlace, and screamed at one another in cars, breaking up and getting back together many times over. We heeded the tap on the glass and went home. We threatened to kill ourselves and harbored baroque fantasies about our funerals. Dying for fun at the crash house purged our maudlin adolescence and all its attendant delusions, suddenly petty in light of things like getting dressed for work and swinging a grocery basket in the crook of an arm and filling out apartment rental applications at Starbucks. An ironic bow at the threshold of adulthood, when all the quotidian necessities of independent living were briefly, intensely glamorous. We got oil changes and shopped for work clothes. We stopped buying Nat Sherman Fantasia's and got promoted to shift lead. We had people over for dinner and complained about our bosses. Then some of us got actual cancer, and some of us actually tried to kill ourselves, and once or twice we went blind, stabbing the roof of our mouth with the toothbrush, our girlfriends trying to pull rank on despair. 

We scatter. But we find each other. Years later, Landon and I are sitting in the Seinfeld restaurant in Harlem. I’m on my first work trip with the gallery. Landon entered Columbia University as a film major, and is about to leave with a degree in computer science. Upon learning the average post-graduation salaries for his respective choices, the change was swift. I show him my little stack of business cards with the word director printed under my name. He pays for the meal with an elegant slip of his own card. The last time we dined, it was at a Cheesecake Factory in Orange County. He wore sunglasses to mask the bandages over his eyes, and I wept into some kind of alcoholic milkshake called a Flying Gorilla. 

We pick at anonymous fried brown things and exchange tabs on where we all went. The food here is decent, except for the marinara sauce, which I suspect is with dishwater to make it last. We talked about all of the times we died and I ask, between bites of naked mozzarella stick, why he left the old crash house. 

“I just thought we could be grown-ups,” he said. 

I remembered the giant Patrick Nagel poster that crowned the faux-wood paneled living room, a crouching woman in pink thigh high boots, larger than life. 

“Mmmmm," I said. 

“And we just”—last time I visited the house she had grown a dick, a mustache, and a fist-sized hole near her shoulder—“like, we couldn’t do it,” he said. “We couldn’t have nice things or make a home.” 

“You should have taken out the wallpaper." 

“It was his mom’s." 

“I know," I said, "but that’s a lot of apples." 

MONEY

Money is an excellent balm, very near to forgiveness. I met John Wayne at a comedy show, and he quoted Austin Powers in bed, but the following week he was out of town on business, and it felt good to say “he’s out of town on business” in response to someone’s face screwing up about the yeah baby stuff. It generally worked, and I have no reason to believe John Wayne wasn’t his real name. 

MONEY

“Does the taco place take cards?”

“They charge seventy cents to use a card.”

“Alright then let’s swing by the Chase ATM on the way.”

“Are you for real?”

“Yes. What? Yes I’m for real.”

“You’re just going to spend the seventy cents you’ll save from using cash for the tacos on the extra gas it will take to swing by the ATM for the cash.”

“It’s on the way.”

“It’s so freaking hot right now.”

“It’s literally right on the way.”

“I can’t believe you can make these kinds of calculations after we’ve been sitting under a waterfall all day.”

“I’m stopping at the Chase ATM.”

“If you’re going to trap me in this hot car any longer in order to save seventy cents, then I’ve earned seventy cents worth of bitching for however long this ATM detour is delaying tacos.”

“I can’t believe you can make these kinds of calculations after we’ve been sitting under a waterfall all day.”

“We haven’t even moved in the last five minutes.”

“Fine. It’s worth seventy cents to not have to sit in this traffic or hear you bitch.”

“Do you think if we had universal basic income, Post-Internet art would still exist?”

….

“What?”

“I don’t know.” 

RATS

Oddly enough they fuck like rabbits. We brought home a brother and sister from the bucket guy, thinking they might respect their second chance at life by refraining from incest. Instead they multiplied, and we had to buy more cages to house all the pink little nubbies that kept popping out of the mama rat. Seizing upon this educational moment, our mother encouraged us to learn more about rats, and we observed the little nubbies at length, patiently waiting for them to grow into more comely beings. One day I noticed one of the nubbies lying still while the others inched around the cage with their little salamander limbs. I put him in my palm, and he was cold. I took him to my father, who was preparing his next sermon in the dining room. I had yet to attend public school, but I’d seen enough television to aesthetically forecast the kind of educational moment he might seize upon. 

“Dad,” I cooed, “this one died.” 

“Oh honey,” he said, taking the miniature creature in his hands, “He’s not dead… he’s just thirsty!” 

And with that, he dropped the dead baby rat into his glass of lemonade. 

I froze for a few seconds, then clapped my hands over my mouth to keep from laughing. 

That’s when I became a comedian.