Many moons ago (SO many moons ago, in fact, that I'd completely forgotten about it) I ordered a book from Subterranean Press.
Having just finished listening to Ernest Cline's Ready Player One (read by Will Wheaton! and if you didn't hear it, that was a little 'squee' of nerdtastic proportions), and having already procured both a first printing and an ARC of said title, I decided that YES, Yes I DID
indeed need a signed, limited edition of the book as well. So I ordered it.
Then completely and utterly forgot about it. Until today.
Today, while figuring out how in the hell I was going to get vegetables to grow in my less-than-sunny yard, I heard a noise (that honestly I just attributed to cats until I realized they were all sleeping on the couch). When I investigated, there it was. The well, packaged, well taped standard, unassuming brown box with, what's this? A Subterranean Press return address label?
My first thought was that the good folks at Subterranean Press had come to realize how amazing my blog was that they just decided to send me a book to reward me for my love and interest of perpetuating all things literary. Basking in the glow of my own coolness, I opened the package.
blink. blink. (it took a second to set in) OOOOHHHHH, right! I actually ordered this!
The blow to my ego was eased by the beautiful (and heavy), signed copy that lay before me. Number 204 of 750, with a signature so bold and sure that it could read Szt Ka and no one would be any wiser.
I also got 2 lbs. of almonds in the mail (what? They're a super food), but I figured you didn't want to read about that.