They say that the lines on every face tell its own story. I suppose, then, that each such visage begins as a nursery rhyme and concludes as something unreadable by Trollope ... mind you, at the moment, my own resembles a well-thumbed chick-lit, Oprah-approved bestseller; passed on from wide-eyed chick to wide-eyed chick in an orgy of book club ecstacy. No doubt I shall soon be adapted into a movie starring an A-list cast of buxom beauties ... er ... where was I? ... oh yes, unreadable by Trollope; dusty, leather-bound volumes with yellowing pages and broken spines. Although, you'd have to say, considering how relentlessly blank most people look today, they might as well just be books on tape; the cheap type that are recorded on analogue cassettes whose oxide crumbles after only three plays. And like most modern books, they don't feature much of a story either.
(The author of this post is available at most airport book stalls, and is an extremely easy read. Why not bring him to the beach and share him with your friends?)
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