(no subject)
In case anyone has actually cared, my hand is fine. My pride, self respect, whatever, the whole list--they've all seen better days. My hand, however, is fine. Now, at least.
That's rather all I wish to say about last weekend, at all.
Except that I definitely (metaphorically) need a holiday from all this.
In slightly happier news, nothing has gone missing from the shop in the past month except a slightly foxed copy of Xenocide which, honestly, is unmissed, and, honestly, the theft of that is its own punishment. Because if you steal it, you now own it. And owning it is not something I would wish upon my worst enemy.
Why do so many of my stories of ruined or missing books involve Orson Scott Card, anyway? I'm beginning to think that I'm doing this, myself, subconsiously.
That's rather all I wish to say about last weekend, at all.
Except that I definitely (metaphorically) need a holiday from all this.
In slightly happier news, nothing has gone missing from the shop in the past month except a slightly foxed copy of Xenocide which, honestly, is unmissed, and, honestly, the theft of that is its own punishment. Because if you steal it, you now own it. And owning it is not something I would wish upon my worst enemy.
Why do so many of my stories of ruined or missing books involve Orson Scott Card, anyway? I'm beginning to think that I'm doing this, myself, subconsiously.