Decisions have been made. Sacrifices even.
There are around 400 books in this flat, about 320 of which are going to have be left behind to make space for other, more "important" stuff so I don't have to sell a kidney before I leave to pay for their transport.
I feel like I'm abandoning my children.
No, I don't really, but did that feel dramatic enough?
To be completely honest (and am I ever anything but?), some of them I'm actually glad to be rid of. My personal hall-of-shame books: bad chick lit and Patricia Cornwells mostly. Still. They were my hall of shame. Now I'm probably going to have to give them away to friends. Hey, I bought them. The shame will surely be a lot more tolerable if they don't even have to spend a farthing for them, won't it? They could even argue that they're doing it as a favour to me if that makes them feel better about it. You and I will always know better, though. Our little secret. Our leverage.
Or I could leave them at my parents', in boxes, with scores of other books that are already there, and where they will see no light for... ever, probably. And let me remind you that that sort of behaviour is usually frowned upon when applied to children. Just sayin'.
I guess there's always the bonfire solution, auto-da-fe style.
I'm torn.
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