just wanted to share my wit
this is an assignment i am seriosly plannign to hand in tommorow. it is a personal response journal to my volunteer work at the Public Library bookshop. enjoy.
After being dropped off at the Library, I saunter in, feeling for once I have a purpose. My jaunty step quickly turns to one of an obedient helper, right outside the bookshop. I fix a smile upon my face, unbutton my jacket to reveal a freshly ironed shirt, and walk in, hand extended. I try not to fall over as I walk into the broom closet they call a bookstore. After shaking hands with the woman at the helm, I hang up my coat and am set to work. One hour after rearranging every book in the store. I find myself slowly sinking into utter boredom. Another hour passes, and I am on the verge of insanity. I have touched every book in that store at least five times. There is a sign on the wall, pointing to a cubbyhole. Blocked off by a corner and a cubicle wall to which it points, the sign reads “Yan Martel, writer in residence.” On his desk, which must have arrived there by magic, a sign reads “Back in five minutes.” It was there before I came. Quietly I wonder if Yan was driven to madness by his white prison, and is now poised on the Broadway Bridge. Politely, I smile at the woman shake hands, and am relieved of my duties as a volunteer. I pick out two items, my choice slightly reduced by row upon row of Harlequin romances, and exit the store. Volunteering has put a fly in the ointment of my nerves, so I return to the school on the gleaming white chariot that is the 6A.
After being dropped off at the Library, I saunter in, feeling for once I have a purpose. My jaunty step quickly turns to one of an obedient helper, right outside the bookshop. I fix a smile upon my face, unbutton my jacket to reveal a freshly ironed shirt, and walk in, hand extended. I try not to fall over as I walk into the broom closet they call a bookstore. After shaking hands with the woman at the helm, I hang up my coat and am set to work. One hour after rearranging every book in the store. I find myself slowly sinking into utter boredom. Another hour passes, and I am on the verge of insanity. I have touched every book in that store at least five times. There is a sign on the wall, pointing to a cubbyhole. Blocked off by a corner and a cubicle wall to which it points, the sign reads “Yan Martel, writer in residence.” On his desk, which must have arrived there by magic, a sign reads “Back in five minutes.” It was there before I came. Quietly I wonder if Yan was driven to madness by his white prison, and is now poised on the Broadway Bridge. Politely, I smile at the woman shake hands, and am relieved of my duties as a volunteer. I pick out two items, my choice slightly reduced by row upon row of Harlequin romances, and exit the store. Volunteering has put a fly in the ointment of my nerves, so I return to the school on the gleaming white chariot that is the 6A.