This week’s headline?
"bruised Irish rainclouds"Why this book?
"imparting important info
"Which book format?
signed from BookPeoplePrimary reading environment?
"the U2 hotel"Any preconceived notions?
"Pull my finger."Identify most with?
"A pincer movement." Three little words?
"plasma-guzzling status symbols"Goes well with?
rulebook dung biscuitsRecommend this to?
"your dork posse"
I read this book while on a beach vacation with my mom. At one point, I was reading it in the massage chair at a nail salon. I had some kneading-undulating-rotation action happening on my back, and I was trying not to giggle whenever the pumice stone touched my in-step. Then the man at my feet started in on the calf massage
Already adjusted to the I'm-actually-in-pain giggles, topped with the honest-to-goodness Mulch Diggums giggles, I just laughed as the little man pummeled the fist-sized bruise on the inside of my shin. I had slammed my leg into the hotel shower that morning, and though it hurt, I was content to let it ride. Beauty is pain, and I was feeling jealous of the makeover No1 had given Holly.
"Well, I gave you a magical makeover. Your bones are less brittle, your joints are lubed. I bolstered your immune system, and cleared out your synapses, which were getting a little clogged with magical residue. I filled your tank with my own personal blend of power, and made your hair a little more lustrous than it already is, and bolstered your protection rune so you will never be possessed again."
Then my mom and the lady working on her toes, who both had a clear view of the discoloration on my leg, looked over and gasped in horror. The woman scolded her colleague in Vietnamese. I smiled and laughed.
Later, I sat next to my mom at the infared nail-drying station. My toes were polished with OPI Mermaid's Tears, a sea green that would be matched by the bruise itself a few days later. I had the book open on my lap and, still giggling, read this passage aloud:
"Yes," said Mulch, then coughed up something that squeaked and crawled away.Other cultural accompaniments:
Farewell to "Artemis Fowl, the Oirish boy who chased leprechauns. Sure and begorrah everyone has heard of that smarty pants."Grade:
A-I leave you with this:
"Opal had enough consciousness left to smirk inside her cocoon. Fairy medieval poetry. Typically blunt. Bad grammar, obvious rhyme, and melodrama coming out its metaphorical ears.