So I told you guys I was going to a book signing tonight, right?
I'll write more about it tomorrow (or later tonight: I just have to shove some food in my face), but let's just say that was the most disappointed I've been leaving a bookstore since I had my own money & didn't have to have a melt down every time my mother would hold up her 'just one' finger and I had to decide between the latest Babysitter's Club, or the newest Stephen King. (What? That's normal, right?)
For now let's just say that the signing was downstairs; the staff forgot or misplaced my book; and although I was told that the author would come up at the end of the night, and I waited almost four hours for her to do so, they basically closed the store around me with no author in sight. So. It's just one more of those little arrows that chronic illness gets to aim at you, and when your armor's not up to protect you from it, those bastards sneak right in and hit you where it hurts.