mourning

[threeplusfire]

Insidious creeping mold in the walls of the old apartment managed to sneak under my bookshelf. On the lowest level, there isn't any wood backboard. All my Edith Wharton, my Robert Anton Wilson, my copy of The Once and Future King, my collections of fairytales, old and new, and my lesbian vampire erotica book have all been destroyed. I'm heartbroken.

Oh god.
How could this happen?
Well it's rather obvious isn't it?
I knew we had mold in the closet, but they cleaned it out.
You shouldn't trust other people to do a proper job of something important.
I know I know. Shut up.