My husband apparently wants to read Gilgamesh. ”Do we have a copy?” he asks.
Our house is basically made of books. It’s not big enough for all the books we have. I still have books from when I was five. I have books that I love, books that I think the kid might like to read eventually, I have books I’m keeping just because I hated them and ended up having to read them, like, two or three times, so at this point it’s like keeping the mummified head of my enemy on a pike.
Honestly? I don’t remember if we have a copy of Gilgamesh. I mean, the odds are pretty good, but who knows.
Anyway, now he’s critiquing the book shelves and complaining about our lack of organization. (Three or four years ago, we put everything together by series and author, but didn’t have time to alphabetize, so our ultimate organization is something like check where I have all the Eddas or I’d probably put that near the Neil Gaiman, go look on that shelf.)
(Did I mention the entire closet dedicated to comics boxes? Because that’s on him.)