Women have an extraordinary knack of picking just the right gift. It's like a sixth sense. No, a skill. It's a super skill. Amongst all their other super skills of being able to withstand the excruciating pains of waxing, plucking and giving birth, they can also pick out a gift like a mah'fucker.
What you see on the right is a story I wrote when I was in Egypt. Bound and printed with a run of just 1, just for me, courtesy of my beloved girlfriend.
It's the most incredible fucking gift I've ever received in my life.
This book almost got published once by a friend of mine, but he was adamant that I wrote something else first, something longer. I didn't write, he didn't publish.
This book also charts one of those major turning points in my life: the time I broke up with a girlfriend of mine, the time I got the belly, the time my stomach aches first popped up.
Reading it, bound and printed, is indescribable. She was annoyed that some of the pages weren't printed properly, either slightly slanted or misprinted, but I loved it. I was reading a book I wrote, I had the only print and it was printed for me.
It's different from reading a manuscript or reading off screen. The hardback cover, the times new roman font pressed onto the paper, reading your name where the author's name should be... wow.
I also just realized how many typos, spelling mistakes and inconsistencies there were in that book too.
But reading it again was a revelation. Some parts reminded me of those same sad feelings I once had, but for the most part I could look back and laugh at a time when life didn't seem worth living.
I've got a book. It contains the history of Egypt, the history of my relationships, and a history of memories.
Kick ass.
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