Monday Lite: I Didn't Really Want To Officer, But You See, My Outerwear Has An Insatiable Thirst For Human Blood
I'm later than usual today because the school called and I had to go pick up my son, whom I've agreed to pretend is sick. I do this for him in exchange for not having to take him to soccer practice today. I scratch his back, he scratches mine.

I spent part of the morning cataloguing my old comic book collection with an eye toward appraising its value and selling it. Financial wizard that I am, I figure it is worth more exchanged for cash-money than it is sitting in the back of my closet, neglected and alone but for the family of crickets and my old black denim jacket (circa 1989) to keep it company. Although a black denim jacket might be an excellent conversation starter (e.g., "What the fuck, are you wearing a black denim jacket?"), in and of itself it is not much of a conversationalist and thus poor company.

The humane thing to do is to sell my whole collection, maybe find a nice family in the country who will take my comic book collection; some people with a nice piece of property with a field and creek and maybe a nice shade tree my comic book collection could laze away under during long, carefree summer days and catch firebugs by night. That's the ideal anyway.

That and a giant pile of cash for me.

In perusing my collection, I came up with 514 items, most from the 1989-1991 period, some individual pieces of which are worth upwards of $500 and most of which... uh... aren't.

I also found some stuff I'd forgotten I'd bought, one of which I found highly disturbing. Look at this:



That's right, it says "Marvel Illustrated" and in the awesome black-writing inside the equally awesome classic-early-'90s-design neon blue squiggle it says "The Swimsuit Issue".

At one point in my life, apparently I thought it would be a good idea to purchase a magazine containing drawn and colored-in pictures of pretend ladies in swimsuits, some of whom had green skin, all of whom had superpowers.

The repressed memories are... well, they're rushing back and they're too horrible to speak of.

I must have been much much lonelier than even I realized.

Poor 15-year-old Pops with only a scantily-clad She-Hulk and a non-verbal black denim jacket to keep him company. Thank God I eventually found real girls to talk to, otherwise we're looking at the early-days biography of a serial killer.



This post on the Narcissus Scale: 9.8


Pops
- posted by Pops @ 3:09 PM