Ah, it's got that sort of gotcha moment 'cause it says "White" witch doctor. Oh, you is so raycess.* That's how you move books, says the publisher in my head that talks like Daniel Tosh, is with a gotcha moment.
I don't know. There's something about this one...that old musty smell from whatever that lesser type of paper that used to be used, or the red edged paper which reminds me of nothing more than the stacks of old romance that lined the edges of my mother's bed. Now, I wasn't allowed to read those. Thinking back, I'm not sure if it was because of my age, or just possessiveness. Maybe it was just one of those gender roles being preached like how I was also not supposed to read Nancy Drew when God hath made the separate but equal Hardy Boys.
Little things make little breaks. Of all the fissures and cracks of my mind, this is maybe bottom five. Whenever I see one of these red edged books I, just for a second, wonder how I managed get it. I'm not allowed right, mommy? There's bigger breaks from the casual mishandling of parenting, but something like this is a reminder.
*The more phonetically pleasing rendition of "racist."
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