In Which Your Humble Blogger gets his mitts on a history book.
In Which Your Humble Blogger tries to remember what it was like to be nineteen. Um, I didn’t sleep as much, and I didn’t hurt as much, and other people didn’t so much exist.
In Which Your Humble Blogger follows his first impulse, hoping there will be no regrets later.
In Which Your Humble Blogger at first thought that perhaps I had misread the sentence, or that somehow a book from the Rs got into the transmat with one from the Ps again.
In Which it is revealed that Your Humble Blogger never quite understood social expectations.
In Which Your Humble Blogger is made a bit uncomfortable, which is probably good.
In Which Your Humble Blogger proposes a fifty-percent reduction in those little circles that fall out of the hole-punch when the rubber bottom comes off.
In Which this Tohu Bohu is taken over by the eleven-year-old inside Your Humble Blogger, and not very deep inside, either.
In Which Your Humble Blogger talks about his own life, not the fictional lives in the book.
In Which Your Humble Blogger wanders the quiet aisles, which aren’t actually all that quiet, what with one thing and another. Shoosh! I shush you! Ah, never mind, keep chatting, at least you’re awake.