Harold might talk a lot about hating comics, but I’m helping him pack, and that man owns several million comic books.
(Helping him pack actually means dividing his books into boxes for him to take to Chapel Hill, and into a pile for me to read. I’m a catch)
At a certain point I think the nostalgia kicks in and turns everything new to crap. I’m glad I started reading comics in my 30s.
Sometimes I try to figure out his love-hate with comics, but… it’s better to just let him be.
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