This book saved my life when I was seventeen because I was drowning in sadness and Buddhism gave me a way to work with the realities if the world without having to believe in Jesus and whatnot since I hadn’t been able to do since I was about eight.
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My favorite part of this book is the demon who went up a man’s bottom when he tried to sit on Joseph of Arimathea’s throne. (It’s been a while I may be slightly misremembering.)
The problem with being me is that although I don’t need this battered old copy of Edith Grossman’s translation since I have the far more portable ebook version, if I couldn’t look up and see its red cover on the shelf I’d be disproportionately upset.
Look I found a picture I’d already taken of the Tales of Mystery and Imagination Ross bought me, no one on earth gave as good presents as he did, I lost the birthday and Christmas wars every damn year.
I wish he were still here to make me feel like garbage because I am not as good at presents.
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I wish he were still here to make me feel like garbage because I am not as good at presents.