This shit is real and really crazy
I know it is silly to think that my books can’t breathe, but when you grow up with a bad case of asthma and a very vivid imagination, that whole thing you have when you are a kid and you think Barbie will die if the lid is closed on the toy chest, just kinda never fully goes away. In Nov I moved in with a very lovely boyfriend thing. He is amazing, but he did not have adequate furniture for his things, never mind the addition of my own. We are both obsessed with movies and tv shows. So they of course are out of their boxes. But my books. They are here and there in boxes. The, formally known as the junk room, has a box of them and a stack as well in the closet. The garage holds the rest. As garages go, it is nice. It is attached to the house so it is not one of those shady deals falling down in the back yard. But still, my books that I very rarely let anyone borrow are in a garage. They are in boxes. The boxes are taped shut. I am telling you, there is this teeny weeny part of me that worries if they can breathe. What if when I finally have the money for the 3-5 black book shelves and then have the luck to get someone to put them together…. let’s say all that falls in to place… I go get those boxes. I bring them in and carefully rip the tape off. I open the boxes to see letters poured out everywhere because my books choked on them in their last attempt to see day light, to take a breath. I will have 50 + books with nothing but empty pages and tear stains on the pillow of a girl who didn’t get asked to prom. I am a 30 year old woman, so logic does seep in a bit, but what if? Just, what if?