I guess I’m a monster. I write all over my books, too.
So do I. They’re mine and I’ll abuse them if I want to.
Because I am so autistic, in school I always looked for used text books that looked like a smart person had owned it, in terms of the highlighting, if at at glance it seemed like they knew what was the meat and potatoes, I’d take it.
A boy and his mom were walking down the street and the boy pulled on his mom’s arm and said, “Mom look! There’s a bow-legged man over there!”
His mother shushed him quickly telling him it’s not nice to call people bow-legged.
A week later they were walking together and he pulls on his mom’s arm and says, “Look mom! There’s that bow-legged man again!”
This time the mother takes him straight home saying, “I’ve told you before it’s not nice to call people bow-legged.”
Once they arrived at home the mother handed the boy a book of Shakespeare saying, “Go to your room and read this book! Hopefully it will teach you some manners!”
So the boy read the book, and a week later they were walking down the street, and the boy pulls on his mom’s arm and says, “Hark! What manner of men are these? Who wear their legs in parentheses?”
Why don’t autobiographies ever end with the person writing a book?
^^^^^^
A new cache of pencils chewed by Shakespeare have been found
Apparently they were so badly chewed, they couldn’t tell if they were 2B or not 2B
