I just moved to a new apartment and have thrown out a disturbing number of mice that were in various stages of decomposing. The good news is, the weird smell is gone. The bad news is I've become a murderous twenty-something who wants to rid the world of these little animals that don't really know that what they're doing is WRONG AND SO DISGUSTING.
So I'm going to give up my randomly generated number sequence for a short moment and jump straight to rereading Mrs. Frisby and the Rats of NIMH and Stuart Little so I can start to feel that thing called compassion once more. Maybe I'll throw in some Tale of Desperaux while I'm at it, depending on how disgusted I still am in about a week's time.
In other news, I'm currently reading Ann Brashares' My Name is Memory, and it's alright. Not really my cup of tea, but I know a bunch of romantics who would love it. She's the author of the Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants if that's any indication of what this novel is like.
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