That might seem like a damn shame too. (For me, that is. Most people are better off without me having been in their sheets.) It’s not. Somewhere along the line, when others wanted to share their dance floor-drenched junk with a stranger’s insides, all I wanted was to do was crack open a virginal spine, which is thrilling and exciting, every time.
I have amassed a problem—my home, like stroke victim’s sad, lonely face, is going to sag. Plus, there’s a home, a house, in my future, and three flights of stairs and around 2,000 volumes—slim poetic publications to buffet-gorged whales—seems like step-by-step suicide. So, for the first time ever, I’m getting rid of books. Each one that I put into a cardboard coffin jabs at something inside me. It’s not a break, just a dent. What’s worse is the quality of books that leave me feeling this way, like a bank’s CEO looking at her picture on the cover of FORBES and only thinking about the redneck that she gave her virginity to in the back of a Chevy truck bed.
An odd book about berry gardening was the first one I damned to the box. The book was as appealing as a girl with a snaggle tooth, but you’d want to keep someone like that because they’d be loyal, helpful, pragmatic. The doubles are bad too. I have a few Lionel Trillings, and keeping them both seems greedy and a bit perverse, like trying to pull off a double date with just you and a set of twins. But I want to keep them both, because nothing else is being written by the critic’s dead, unmoving hand. And damn those textbooks on currencies and monetary systems. They’re as condescending as an old lady giving you a nickel and telling you to build an empire. But I want to keep those, maybe build a vault out of them, because I might, one day, have a stockpile of nickels and an empire to build.
About three down, but thousands to sort through. That's love to a crazy person.
Point is, other than a little buzzed, I’m feeling sentimental. Soon I’ll be carting down lovers like I am burying my prom date, over and over. Not even lovers—books I have fucked and had my way with. My scribbling and DNA is stuck inside them, and soon they’ll be with someone else.