Mabel found, and, yes, far more importantly, got me the last copy, possibly anywhere, except for the ones in those 'Complete Wreck' box sets, and excluding the uber-expensive audio versions, and not counting the ones we haven't found, of Lemony Snicket's The End.
it now sits in a stack in my apartment in all its shrink-wrapped glory.
i've decided to keep it in its wraps for the moment so i wouldn't get (/unless Mabel decides to read it first, which would be alright since if she were reading it, even though the book would no longer be sealed, i wouldn't get) conflicted, as i'm finally reading again, with my nose, prodigious as it is, completely buried nightly in the words, words, words of Alan Moore's Voice of the Fire. (of which i'm currently doing an embarrassingly badly-written real-time review.)
mixed feelings about the reading. i'm enjoying Voice immensely, and the sooner i get through it, the sooner i get to The End, so to speak, and reading, reading, reading is, in theory, good for my writing. in general. but it usually means i won't be writing as much, and with five stories i was hoping to finish by the end of the year (well, four--one of them may turn into a novella/novel that will take much longer to write), and the uber-non-holiday Halloween already at our doorstep...
true, it's a pointless, self-imposed deadline, but i would rather get them down while they're hot, or at least, a few degrees over lukewarm, in my head.
and here i am rambling, instead. ah well. i'm supposed to be working, anyway, so no writing at the moment. ha.
on the spinner: Elvis Costello, live with the Metropole Orkest, My Flame Burns Blue. ah, yes. jazz.
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