I feel dirty. Nothing to do with any kind of bodily abuse -- food, sex, drugs, exercise. This is a soul kind of stain. For the last few month or so, reviews have been coming in for the new book. I do not read reviews when they arrive. I compile a file and ignore it. But I can not ignore it any longer. My blog guy and publishers say I have to put the reviews on the website. This website. So for most of today I have been forcing myself to read about myself. On and on and more and more, and all about me. Talk about your wankfest. I hate bad reviews. Whether they are smartly or stupidly written, whether they make a good point or persistently miss the point I am trying to make, I hate 'em. Reviews that begin, Scrimger's disappointing new book ... or Until now I have always enjoyed Scrimger's sense of humour ... or I can not understand how Scrimger ... Yuck. I want to take these critics and throw them, collectively, off of a high place so that they land on something sharp. But, see, I don't really like good reviews either. Scrimger is wonderful ... I think Scrimger is the best writer now .... Scrimger's brilliance is unmistakable ... (actually there aren't any reviews that begin this way, but you get what I mean). These reviews are not AS bad as the stinkers, but they are still kind of cringe-making to read. Well, it's over now. Bleah. I have combed through the file, picked out the interesting and positive bits, and put them on the Me & Death page. Maybe I should give you guys -- you blog readers -- the real deal, and include the sentences that were not so positive. Maybe I will, at that. But not now. It's been a long dirty day. I'll have a bath in a moment, and feel cleaner.