I’ve been collecting comic books since I was nine, and with the exception of a couple of years when I was living in Chicago without a car and no real access to a comic shop I’ve never really stopped. It’s probably safe to say that at 40 I’m spending more money on comics than I ever have, actually, due to a combination of disposable income, comics being generally really good right now, and the effect of inflation on the prices of the books themselves.
Hogwarts is having what amounts to a building-wide garage sale next weekend. I just donated about 3500 comics– somewhere around half of my collection, pictured there to the right. This is, I’m pretty sure, the first time I’ve divested myself of any substantial portion of my collection. I spent most of this morning going through those boxes and pulling out anything that I thought might damage tiny little private-school brains, or at least anything that the wealthy parents of those tiny little private-school brains might think would damage them.
I really like comic books, but they’re really heavy and they take up a ton of room. I figure I’ve bought myself another decade before I have to purge the collection again. I did warn the nice lady who came by to pick them up to not expect to make a mint from them and that selling them for a dime or a quarter apiece might be a good idea just to ensure they move; we’ll see what happens. I may go to the sale just to see what happens or I may not; I feel like both seeing my comics get sold off to other people or seeing them sit there alone and unacknowledged might be depressing, so I probably won’t go.
But hey. There’s a lot of space cleared out in the office now. That’s good, right?
In other news, knowing a stranger was coming to my house to help me load up the boxes, I tried to attack the patch of vines near my front door that has overgrown our steps and walkway. We’ve neglected it lately because the mosquitoes are so bad, and it’s gone from “unattractive” to “genuinely sort of embarrassing” lately, but I figured that we’ve had some cool mornings recently and I can go outside in general without feeling like I’m under attack and so it would probably be safe to take the, oh, fifteen minutes it would take to trim the things back, rake them up, and toss the remnants into a garbage can.
In general I’m not frightened of bugs. I avoid bees and wasps, of course, because they’re assholes, but I’ve never been stung. Spiders squick me a bit from time to time, I admit it, but I try not to let it affect my behavior. So when I tell you I had to run away from the patch of greenery in front of my house, flailing my arms around and swatting at my body like– hell, like a guy fucking covered in a swarm of mutant mosquitoes, I suppose, the situation kind of defeats simile– you need to understand that it is not a typical reaction to bugs. And the fucking things chased me. They followed me to the foot of the driveway and then stood guard outside my goddamned garage door and I had to fight through another cloud of them to get back inside.
That patch of vines can go to hell, is what I’m saying. It can take over the whole front of the house for all I care. I come in through the damn garage anyway.