Of all the things I've suffered over the course of this year, the insult to injury was my reading list. I know this will interest only a few of you (possibly none), but I keep to a strict reading list. Unfortunately I am perpetually 10 years behind on everything. I make exceptions every once in a while, but they don't entirely jump the line. I read it at the same time as the one I'm supposed to be reading.
Many years back I inherited a shit-ton of F/SF books. It took a long time for me to catalog them all in my records. They're at the back of the second notebook and the front of the third notebook (yes, I have a reading list longer than a mere single notebook).
When my brother and I got the notice to vacate our childhood home, I was just approaching that part of my reading list. AND THOSE FUCKING BOOKS HAVE BEEN PACKED SINCE 2022. I kept as many books aside as I could for my reading list (I couldn't find three, so I'll have to circle back), but I knew even back then that there was no way we'd still be there by the time I reached the inheritance. Sure enough, I was right.
July 30 is when I get to move into my apartment. All my books will finally be removed from Public Storage and will be at my fingertips once more. I am going to unpack all those glorious books, and I'm going to find those three and read those. And then . . . the inheritance.
I'll finally be back on track with my reading list. Considering the chaos of my life, that's no small thing.
And then, a week later, the cage comes off my foot. At long last.
Just pretend I'm Scrooge McDuck jumping into my vault of gold. Except instead of gold, it's books. Am I wearing pants? I don't know. Maybe? It's your fantasy.
Very well. Our. Shhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh.
Goodnight, Fuckers.
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