Don’t mind me. Again,

Don’t mind me. Again, I have nothing to say. But it’s either this or I fold my laundry. And well… we know that isn’t going to happen. Hell, it’s a minor miracle that I got it washed on time.
And you wondered what the smell was… Not my laundry!
(was my dirty dishes.)
I can’t wait to see my father’s house. He and his wife are those people who just sort of vomit lights all over their property. It’s very cheery in a gaudy, american way. Like I said to Sara, I dont go for those serene, white strings of lights. I need the big, flashing, multicolored strings. If I could find a set that also sang off-color christmas carols, I’d be a happy camper.
I utterly depressed myself today. At the Fashion Center at Pentagon City — an overly inflated name for the mall — I was looking for a gift for my father. But I couldn’t find a book store on the mall map. So I figured I would wander around the entire place until I found it. Only, I never did.
What does it say when the place has entire stores dedicated to cigars, to baseball hats, to candles, to soap…
but no books?
Why is it getting so hard to buy books? You can argue that buying them online offers more books than ever before. But I mean… where are all the bookstores going?
I only know of two used bookstores in DC. And one or two general first run bookstores. In a city of half a million people.
Ray Bradbury was wrong. We won’t have our books taken from us. We’ve already forgotten about them.

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