I hate books.

And so it came about that I was taken by a sudden burning desire to turn a book into a box. Why? Well I don't really know why, it just seemed like a really good thing to do at the time. Here's a 'before' shot of the book in question - published in 1972 and still using terms like 'Mongolian idiocy' to refer to Downs Syndrome, I don't think the world is going to overly miss its wisdom.



At the moment we're at the point where it's just gotten past looking like a disaster but doesn't look good enough yet to show to your parents so they can tell you just how clever you are. Which is unfortunate, given that my mother wandered in a little while ago to see this sitting on the desk:




She now thinks that instead of self-mutilating like all the cool kids are doing I'm sitting in here chopping up books to express my frustration at being born in a cruel and heartless unfair world.

I forgot to post a great big 'Happy Birthday to Me' entry yesterday. Now, according to my grandmother and my employer (well, if I had one (an employer, that is, not a grandmother)) I'm a 'real' adult and now get to enjoy the privilege of being paid the same as all the other real adults as well as being constantly hounded about when I'm going to find a nice man who makes lots of money to marry and start popping out the great grand kids, along with the other privileges I've been able to enjoy in the past two years of 'pretend adulthood' such as electing the nation's leaders and being allowed inside the bottleshop. Yes, that's right, I'm 21!