Feeding my addiction

I went into the library's used book nook-a-ma-jig today for the first time. I've always walked right past it on the way to the CDs, not daring to poke my head in: me in a used book store is like letting Robert Downey, Jr. loose in a pharmacy. But today, I was enticed in by their Valentine's sale: 10 romance novels for $1.00! For awhile, I was tempted to buy a bunch as gifts for the flist, but: 1. the books may be cheap, but shipping is not! and 2. there was no gay romance, which is what most of you are into, anyway. (And on a side note: though at the time I dismissed the idea as pointless and rude, as I sit here I'm starting to become convinced that I should have gone up to the old lady librarians and demanded, loudly, "Excuse me, but where's your gay porn?!" 'Cause seriously, WTF: if they find it appropriate to sell books about medieval virgins having their ladybits plundered by seething, rock-hard manhoods then they shouldn't be squeamish about the ladybit on ladybit and manhood on manhood action.)

ANYWAY. (I swear to Bob, that should be the title of this journal...)

The books I got are made of fantastic:



( How could I not buy a book called 'The Nymphos of Rocky Flats?' )