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I can't find my nail clippers
I mysteriously pulled a muscle in my back and it really hurts when I breathe.
This book. I love Mary Shelley but The Last Man promises an early dystopian plague story and instead gives us Painfully Extensive Accounts of the Emotional Turmoil of Posh People. Perhaps if each sentence was trimmed down by about 17 words apiece, then it'd flow a bit more smoothly and it'd do a decent job of creating emotional stakes for when the plague actually hits but as it is, I'm just feeling irritated and disappointed. I'ma have to go read Frankenstein again to heal my broken heart afterwards. This is The Night Land all over again (and there I was thinking Hodgson could do no wrong!!!)