I was reading a book last night where the narrator, a computer that is able to access all official information, gives the weight (and other vital stats) of every attractive woman who appears in the narrative
and they're all described as weighing less than a hundred pounds
now, are there a lot of women who weigh less than a hundred pounds? yes! but I'm a little disturbed that this is the description of literally every young woman in the book
I suspect the author just thinks that over a hundred pounds sounds fat, even if you're 5'7" (which a lot of these women are)
this is a self-pub, it looks like, and I'm comforting myself by thinking that if he'd gone the trad-pub route, someone would have mentioned this to him
but maybe not
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I have weird stuff in my fridge because I'm hesitant to toss anything in the event I need to quarantine (my fridge is my own, other people are not affected by my fridge choices)
and I have unhealthy stuff in my fridge because I'm depressed by the CONSTANT THREAT OF POSSIBLY HAVING TO QUARANTINE
"It's been twenty years since anyone was killed in the library," Miss Eliot pointed out as she wheeled the book truck down the hallway. "I'm sure everything will be fine."
"I don't know," I said. "It was bad, last time."
She sniffed.
"You need to consider the laws of averages," Miss Eliot said. "That's the trouble with your generation. You don't take risks."
My generation? I'm almost forty. I don't have a generation anymore.
"It was bad," I said stubbornly. "I remember."
I did, too. I was the one who was supposed to open the library on that November 1. I was the one who noticed that it was seeping out from under the doors. It still had that bluish tinge blood does when it's fresh.
"I think we should continue being closed on Halloween," I said.