I have a problem with books. They cause me no end of frustration. A couple of months ago, I got rid of eight boxes of books, you know, those big boxes paper comes in for offices? You can stuff a good number of books in one of those.
Eight boxes. Yep. ‘Cause the Jazzer? She needed space on her shelves – which cover two walls of the front room, floor to ceiling. Lots of shelf space. Lots of full shelf space. So I emptied eight boxes worth. And I gotta tell you, if there is a hell, for me it will be spending all eternity getting rid of some of my books. In sub-zero temperatures. Naked.
The shelves? They’re overflowing again. Hence the frustration. I’m sure my books are fornicating and making baby books in the deep dark of night. (History + novel = historical novel) Or something. ‘Cause me? I dunno where they’re coming from. They mutliply like some evil mutant virus that will take over the world. Or at any rate my living space.
It has gotten to the point where I’ve decided to set them free. Soon as I finish one that I don’t feel compelled to keep, I leave it somewhere for someone else to pick up. Let them take over someone else's space for a change...
I left one at a food fair last week and the next day I saw someone in that same food fair reading it. So maybe this is working. Maybe I’ll be able to get rid of those spawns of literary fornication soon after they arrive. I mean, what else can I do, I can’t really go to the lake and drown them like kittens. I just don’t have the heart. Despite their evil mutant status.
Today is my last day before a well deserved vacation. Well I think so anyway; others might beg to differ but I don’t much care about that. Going out west for a week to see family in Seattle and Montana. I can’t wait!
Hopefully no books will smuggle themselves into my baggage on the way back.