Today I broke a nail and got a papercut. But only one nail and only one papercut.
Someone asked me where the nonfiction section was, and someone else was looking for Beowulf in animals.
I alphebetized books that teach you how to draw manga.
I alphebetized books that help you plan, build, and decorate your home.
I answered the phone: “Hello, thank you for calling… Where am I?”
We do not have any copies of A Prayer for Owen Meany by John Irving.
It pleased me to tear the covers off of magazines, though I was annoyed that a coworker accepted as a return books that had clearly been read.
I felt hungry most of the day.
I left the book I was reading, Powers by Ursula K. Le Guin, in the car; during my lunch break there was nothing I wanted to read in the entire store.
As soon as I got back to work I remembered I meant to peruse The Wolves in the Walls by Neil Gaiman.
We do not have any copies of A Prayer for Owen Meany by John Irving.
On the way home I did not stop to pick up my contacts or check the mail. I drove straight here and changed from my slacks into my pajamas and ate a roast beef sandwich, at last.
And now I will work on the book that someday, perhaps, a bookstore will be sold out of.
Not Owen Meany.
Mostly About Books 