My rows of paperback books no longer reach to chest height. I sorted through them Saturday morning and filled three more bags, bringing my total donations to the office's charity book sale to 110 books. It's an extensive mix of science fiction, mysteries, thrillers and horror.

A few craptacular examples escaped the cut. The sci-fi/horror hybrid Transformations is staying on my shelf because I was reading it one of the times I lost my virginity. The William Johnstone Ashes novels -- a men's adventure series whose plots are always "We kick their asses, and then we move to this town and kick their asses before finishing up with some ass-kicking -- are staying because it's remotely possible I'll want to read them again. L. Ron Hubbard's Mission Earth books are staying because I've only read seven of the ten-volume novel and may want to read them again before finishing the series, even though I started reading it over a decade ago.

Riffling through those musty pages didn't help this allergic reaction I seem to be having to life in general. I was coughing like a forty-year smoker by the time I was finished.

It's good to have the books out of the way, but my apartment certainly feels diminished. Luckily I still have 600 or so to make me feel complete.