My parents always tell me the stories about my childhood that, for some odd reason, I cannot recall. Stories about how I used to have an imaginary friend named Bilbo who supposedly, according to my childhood self, lived in the walls with his pet snake Axel. Wherever the hell I came up with this, I have no idea, but apparently I spent a lot of time with Bilbo and Axel, because my parents always tend to bring it up whenever I visit them.