Today I suffered a great injury by Don Quixote. While easing him into my lap for an afternoon escape, I was caught off guard — having forgotten — so long it's been since last I sampled the pleasure he has to give — by his massive girth. And so it came to pass that my own left forearm has been horribly twisted. I let him drop to the ground — doubtless he was as aghast as I at this unsuspected turn in our long overdue rendezvous. I am tender at the thought of him.
As is so often the case with great books and slightly lesser men, while I love the idea of him, I'm coming to loathe his physical presence.
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