All of my books are unpacked, and anyone who knows me knows that my books must be unpacked before anything else can be unpacked. Priorities, you know.
My two new roommates are both cute, fabulous, and also completely in love with the written word. If you would have walked into the living room of our apartment last night, you would have seen the three of us curled up in various corners. Reading.
I discovered we can talk about books for a long, long time. And not agree about some of them. And not be really angry at each other for not agreeing; we're all reasonable people and we respect that we have different tastes than each other. (My roommate respects that I enjoy Victorian literature, and I won't mock her taste in supernatural avenues of chick lit. To each her own, I say.)
They don't find it odd that to give myself incentive to unpack, I allow myself to read a chapter and then I make myself unpack a box. They both liked my Harry Potter blanket, proving their excellent taste in things with which to keep myself warm. And, in completely unrelated news, they are also addicted to the BBC version of Robin Hood. In short, I don't see myself having any problems getting along with these girls.
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