I bought myself a classy Kindle case from eBigValue, and it works fine, though the design is flawed, snapping shut in the back instead of the front -- but hey, I'm strutting because a fellow mother in my son's karate class paid $60 for hers and mine cost $15. Cha-ching.
Beyond this, I committed to a literary novel for the extraordinary sum of $9.99. The first chapter of A Friend of the Family pulled me in with the unsentimental voice and dark humor. It's about a man whose aspirations for his son cause him to try and subvert his son's romantic relationship, and in the process, the father destroys the family he worked so hard to establish. The unraveling of his life is over by the time the narrator tells his story, which allows for a wise, self-deprecating point of view.
I'll keep you updated on my reading progress, whether I actually finish the novel. But I suspect that I will. I wouldn't have shelled out the cash if I didn't.
Whoever expected life to be so much about money? Not me, working in a strip club at eighteen, easily earning the money I needed to eat, pay rent, and buy the occasional Victoria's Secret underwear.
It's not that I care much about material things -- but bills sneak into the stack on my desk. Doctor co-pays. Karate class. Netflix payments. Two car loans (killer, but maybe better then the unexpected repairs of a junker.) Car insurance. Mortgage payments. And don't get me started about the cost of heroine these days.
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