It's 11 PM and I have to get up at 5:20 AM, but I can't go to bed because I can't find the book I want (To Say Nothing of the Dog by Connie Willis). I suppose it's all my fault, because my books are in absolutely no order whatsoever, except that I mostly keep books my parents might "borrow," (Terry Pratchett, Douglas Adams, history) in my room, and books they would never touch (Irvine Welsh, Chuck Palahniuk, Jane Austen) in my other bookcases down the hall. I suppose I could try putting them in some kind of order some time, but the very idea makes me feel faint. It's particularly unfair because Connie Willis is my favorite so I actually put almost all her books on one shelf, but of course the one I want is missing.
On the plus side, my dad finally caved and bought his own copy of To Say Nothing of the Dog after the last time I had to go extract my copy from his clutches, so I can just go steal that one until my own turns up. It serves him right. And, as a bonus, I can hold it hostage until he gives me back Last Chance to See.
Incidentally, I finally found my copy of 1984 in my brother's room when I went in to look for the German dictionary I lent him 5 years ago. He doesn't even read unless he's forced. There must be some sort of hereditary compulsion at work here,
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