Here's the thing: I don't care for science fiction. I used to say I didn't like science fiction, then I found out that I love that damn Northern Lights movie whose name I can't think of right now (ah, Frequency), so I changed it to not liking space. But then I liked some space movie (although I can't think of a damn one I'd want to watch, so meh), so I changed my tune once again. I don't like aliens.

That said, while I know it is against every literary rule known to man, I don't care for Ray Bradbury's book, The Illustrated Man. It's a collection of short stories about the "future." The future has a lot of vacuum tubes and other planet life stuff. And there are, for sure, many aliens.

Aliens give me the creeps, yo.

I had read the first story from the book, which is about some kids killing their parents in a creepy something-or-other kind of room like that one from the later Star Trek TV shows (HATE), you know, the one that turns into the stuff you imagine (Holodeck!) and it gave me nightmares, so I put the book away. But Ray Bradbury is the master of science fiction (so I'm told), so I felt it was only fair to read him as part of my great reading adventure for the year. (Also, because Cagey said to and I do whatever the Internet tells me to do. Just kidding.)

Many of the stories actually caused me to have nightmares. Mostly the ones where kids are eeeevil. I don't like little devil children. They freak my shit out. This is probably good, since I'm sure that is the effect Bradbury was going for, but having a small child of my own, it mostly just gave me the heebs.

Anyway, I finished it. So it couldn't possibly have been that bad.

And that's about the best I can say for it

***This post brought to you by stream-of-consciousness writing done best while attempting to get all your work done for your damn intensive class after falling on the FREAKIN' ICE RINK that was the parking lot of the seminary this morning.***