Thursday, November 20, 2014

Books Can Save Your Life, But Why Should They?

I have what is left of this afternoon and evening to myself here at Zombie Logic world headquarters, in the heart of America;s third most dangerous neighborhood, while the rest of the family is sick and quaranteening themselves back at the house. I feel like I should do something productive like make a comprehensive, engaging list of products available from Zombie Logic, and known associates, but every time I have that thought I realize nobody is going to buy them anyway, so I might as well walk over to the convenience store and buy enough ice cream to eat myself into a hyperglycemic coma. 

You weren't going to buy anything I went to the trouble of making a Pay Pal button for, describing, and finding a suitable picture for here, anyway, were you? Didn't think so. 

I saw today books had saved the life of a student at Florida State University where a crazed gunman began shooting. The books absorbed the bullets and saved his life. I'm not saying Zombie Logic Press books can save your life that way. If given a choice, they probably wouldn't. 

I sell books. It was a terrible miscalculation in judgement that has doomed me to a life of poverty and guilt. I don't really sell books, because you don't buy them. More correctly, I make books. I am happy to do so. Right now I'm editing a rather marvelous book by a young fellow with Cerebal Palsy. It's his first book, and details his journey through evangelical Christendom, searching for meaning and such. Hoping to publish that early in 2015, maybe February. 

Anyway, I have a freezer full of burritos, so I can hold out here rather indefinitely. Cyber space is endless, so I could hypothetically just keep jabbering forever, which is somewhat against my directives here at this blog. I rarely just write about myself, my daily thoughts and feelings, or random observations. 

Right there I just ran out of things to say. I should probably put a picture of something in here somewhere. 


Poet and publisher Thomas L. Vaultonburg pissing on a wall. 


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