boooooooks
Feb. 27th, 2007 07:38 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
impyGood news: I dragged in two bags full of books to the Trade-A-Book and they took almost all of them. The ones they didn't take, I was told to bring back a little later as they were just a matter of we have too many at the moment.
Good news, the second: They had a few books I actually wanted.
Bad news: I immediately burned through all my credit and then went off into the land of why, oh why, did I spend a small fortune on books I'd probably be better off buying in lots off ebay?
The answer: I'm an idiot.
Silver lining is that if I go the lot-route and end up with better versions or even just doubles, all the ones I just bought can be returned, guarenteed.
Now, the usual rant. I looooove going to that bookstore, I do, because it's an awful lot like wandering into someone's library and beind told to pick out whatever you like. The downside is that it's an awful lot like wandering into someone's library and realizing they've had the exact same books for the last three years. This is particularly awesome if you're always a couple of bucks short and really want that one book, but you always find something you want more... as it means that it will probably still be there the next time you visit. On the other hand, if you've been waiting for a better version of something to come along, you're in for a looooooong wait.
Don't you love how it's all vague and unless you've been paying freakishly close attention you don't necessarily realize I just bought way too many Sweet Valley books? Mmmhmm, I know. What's worse is that it was the Twins series, which I used to have maybe half of when I was younger, but sometime when we moved so many years ago, they appear to have been lost. Ditto for my ever so impressive collection of BSC books. This bugs me for all kinds of reasons. I don't like buying the same book over and over again to begin with, but sometimes I'll snag different versions [new covers, foreign editions] for superficial reasons. However, my SVT and BSC books were pretty much the result of my grandmother and my great aunt buying me books every summer when I would go to visit.
This icon is from one of the books they bought me shortly after I had to get glasses and was not taking it well. But I cannot find my copy of the book anywhere. So I had to buy said book again yesterday. Vexing.
Yesterday also brought another fight with the boy. If not for PMS and the fact that he was being completely INSANE, I would have ignored him. But when he started screaming for the dog [who had just managed to knock the boy's lunch onto the ground, shattering some lovely china in the process] in that voice I know all too well, I paused my movie and told him to calm the fuck down. In response his royal majesty starts yelling some more and throws the Wheat Thins box he'd shoved my pepsi can in [the one I wasn't actually done with, thankyouverymuch, at the wall, only it hits in such a way that he sprays the remainder of said Pepsi all over me and the door to the porch. When I'm less than thrilled about it, he points out that he didn't throw it at me [because the foot to the right is totally far enough away, right?] and maybe if I cleaned up after myself...
Which is his current issue. Omigawd, do I have to do everything around here? <-- him in proper teenage girl melodramatic fashion. Well, no, no you don't. You could wait two seconds and see if maybe someone was actually done with what they were eating/using/drinking/fashioning into weaponry to use against you or your evil dog before you attempt to throw it out, all while making a HUGE production out of it.
I'll be honest. I'm not quiet when I've done the dishes or cleaned something other than my room. I make a bigfuckingdeal out of it because I'm just that immature. I know it, I try not to do it, but I revert back to my eight year old, "Mommy, Mommy, look what I did!" ways. On the other hand, when just about everyone else in the house was employed and I wasn't, and the dark cloud of moodiness had either lifted or yet to descend, I did dishes, I made dinner, I straightened the living room, and I did not expect a friggin' medal each time I did so. Why? Because the whole not having a job meant I should contribute in some way, even if it wasn't financially. So yes, fuss when I clutter the office like it's never been cluttered before, but shut the fuck up about whether I'm lazy or not. [I am. I so totally am, it's not funny.] Half my friggin' paycheck is immediately taken from me, people make huge fucking productions about having to take me to work, I deal with shit from people all night long, and yet I don't end up in jail, or drunk atleast three nights a week, or high every single day, and last time I checked I didn't have a kid that I was alienating because I couldn't tell my friends to fuckoff for that one weekend a month. I also don't expect my parents to pay MY child support so I don't go back to JAIL.
But I didn't say that. I did tell him that if he went near his dog with the way he was acting, I would call the cops and tell them they should really pay special attention to the room across the hall from his. Only I muttered this just loudly enough for him to hear, but he's a teenage girl, so of course he comes back with, "What? What did you say?" And because I'm of the female persuasion, I said, "Nothing. Nothing at all." If you've lost your bitch-to-English dictionary, that means, "You heard me, asshole." Which earns the scathing, "That's right. You always wander off and mumble -blahblahblah-" to which I damn near started laughing. That's HIS thing. He still stomps up the stairs, muttering almost loudly enough for everyone to hear, and it's always about how persecuted he is.
G'ah! Since I'm ever so contrary, all his bitching about "you never clean!" meant that despite being asked to clean off the love seat in the living room, all I wanted to do was wander around the house, knocking things over and basically wrecking the place. I didn't. I even managed to actually clean the love seat and snuggle the poor, scared out of her mind puppy.
But I'm seriously considering carving time out and asking the father-type who a girl has to kill around here to have the boy thrown out. I understood when they didn't because the widget needs his daddy in an easily found location and whatnot, but since the boy isn't even here for those weekends anyway, what does it matter? I'm betting the stress of living with the boy is more than the stress of worrying if he's finally managed to get his ass kicked by someone who was tired of listening to him bitch. For all he parades around acting as if he is the sole reason the house isn't condemned, he's also a big reason of why things don't frickin' work around here. But how exactly does one suggest that the crazy has just got to go?
In other news, the fun thing about being subscribed to three or four magazines is that once a month I'm pretty much guarenteed something in the mail. Now, if my other book and my clothes would arrive...
Now I'm off to the warm and cuddly land of fluffy stuff.
Good news, the second: They had a few books I actually wanted.
Bad news: I immediately burned through all my credit and then went off into the land of why, oh why, did I spend a small fortune on books I'd probably be better off buying in lots off ebay?
The answer: I'm an idiot.
Silver lining is that if I go the lot-route and end up with better versions or even just doubles, all the ones I just bought can be returned, guarenteed.
Now, the usual rant. I looooove going to that bookstore, I do, because it's an awful lot like wandering into someone's library and beind told to pick out whatever you like. The downside is that it's an awful lot like wandering into someone's library and realizing they've had the exact same books for the last three years. This is particularly awesome if you're always a couple of bucks short and really want that one book, but you always find something you want more... as it means that it will probably still be there the next time you visit. On the other hand, if you've been waiting for a better version of something to come along, you're in for a looooooong wait.
Don't you love how it's all vague and unless you've been paying freakishly close attention you don't necessarily realize I just bought way too many Sweet Valley books? Mmmhmm, I know. What's worse is that it was the Twins series, which I used to have maybe half of when I was younger, but sometime when we moved so many years ago, they appear to have been lost. Ditto for my ever so impressive collection of BSC books. This bugs me for all kinds of reasons. I don't like buying the same book over and over again to begin with, but sometimes I'll snag different versions [new covers, foreign editions] for superficial reasons. However, my SVT and BSC books were pretty much the result of my grandmother and my great aunt buying me books every summer when I would go to visit.
This icon is from one of the books they bought me shortly after I had to get glasses and was not taking it well. But I cannot find my copy of the book anywhere. So I had to buy said book again yesterday. Vexing.
Yesterday also brought another fight with the boy. If not for PMS and the fact that he was being completely INSANE, I would have ignored him. But when he started screaming for the dog [who had just managed to knock the boy's lunch onto the ground, shattering some lovely china in the process] in that voice I know all too well, I paused my movie and told him to calm the fuck down. In response his royal majesty starts yelling some more and throws the Wheat Thins box he'd shoved my pepsi can in [the one I wasn't actually done with, thankyouverymuch, at the wall, only it hits in such a way that he sprays the remainder of said Pepsi all over me and the door to the porch. When I'm less than thrilled about it, he points out that he didn't throw it at me [because the foot to the right is totally far enough away, right?] and maybe if I cleaned up after myself...
Which is his current issue. Omigawd, do I have to do everything around here? <-- him in proper teenage girl melodramatic fashion. Well, no, no you don't. You could wait two seconds and see if maybe someone was actually done with what they were eating/using/drinking/fashioning into weaponry to use against you or your evil dog before you attempt to throw it out, all while making a HUGE production out of it.
I'll be honest. I'm not quiet when I've done the dishes or cleaned something other than my room. I make a bigfuckingdeal out of it because I'm just that immature. I know it, I try not to do it, but I revert back to my eight year old, "Mommy, Mommy, look what I did!" ways. On the other hand, when just about everyone else in the house was employed and I wasn't, and the dark cloud of moodiness had either lifted or yet to descend, I did dishes, I made dinner, I straightened the living room, and I did not expect a friggin' medal each time I did so. Why? Because the whole not having a job meant I should contribute in some way, even if it wasn't financially. So yes, fuss when I clutter the office like it's never been cluttered before, but shut the fuck up about whether I'm lazy or not. [I am. I so totally am, it's not funny.] Half my friggin' paycheck is immediately taken from me, people make huge fucking productions about having to take me to work, I deal with shit from people all night long, and yet I don't end up in jail, or drunk atleast three nights a week, or high every single day, and last time I checked I didn't have a kid that I was alienating because I couldn't tell my friends to fuckoff for that one weekend a month. I also don't expect my parents to pay MY child support so I don't go back to JAIL.
But I didn't say that. I did tell him that if he went near his dog with the way he was acting, I would call the cops and tell them they should really pay special attention to the room across the hall from his. Only I muttered this just loudly enough for him to hear, but he's a teenage girl, so of course he comes back with, "What? What did you say?" And because I'm of the female persuasion, I said, "Nothing. Nothing at all." If you've lost your bitch-to-English dictionary, that means, "You heard me, asshole." Which earns the scathing, "That's right. You always wander off and mumble -blahblahblah-" to which I damn near started laughing. That's HIS thing. He still stomps up the stairs, muttering almost loudly enough for everyone to hear, and it's always about how persecuted he is.
G'ah! Since I'm ever so contrary, all his bitching about "you never clean!" meant that despite being asked to clean off the love seat in the living room, all I wanted to do was wander around the house, knocking things over and basically wrecking the place. I didn't. I even managed to actually clean the love seat and snuggle the poor, scared out of her mind puppy.
But I'm seriously considering carving time out and asking the father-type who a girl has to kill around here to have the boy thrown out. I understood when they didn't because the widget needs his daddy in an easily found location and whatnot, but since the boy isn't even here for those weekends anyway, what does it matter? I'm betting the stress of living with the boy is more than the stress of worrying if he's finally managed to get his ass kicked by someone who was tired of listening to him bitch. For all he parades around acting as if he is the sole reason the house isn't condemned, he's also a big reason of why things don't frickin' work around here. But how exactly does one suggest that the crazy has just got to go?
In other news, the fun thing about being subscribed to three or four magazines is that once a month I'm pretty much guarenteed something in the mail. Now, if my other book and my clothes would arrive...
Now I'm off to the warm and cuddly land of fluffy stuff.
