I'ma Gonna Build a Fort!
I went to the library and got a load of books.
And I’m not using the term ‘load’ for the casual, colloquial meaning it has when it rolls in and hides in the middle of your sentence.
I’m using it in the way you’d say “trailer load of bricks”.
Or “that baby just dropped a load”.
I carried them back to my place.
Granted, it’s not far. But I couldn’t see for looking over them, and my jacket did this weird twisty thing as my pants started falling down, so you could see bare hip and knickers. On only one side.
And the expressions that people had when they saw me coming (and I struggled to avoid a front row view of what’s happening up my nostrils as I balanced the top of the pile of books with my chin) would have been entertaining if they were directed at someone else. But directed at me, they invoked sheer terror.
Who are these people and why are they judging me?
I’m sorry I stood on your foot.
I’m sorry I kicked your small child (but in all fairness, you saw me coming - slowly. Why didn’t you move them? Why must my boots do your job?)
I’m sorry you were momentarily blinded by the glare from my pale, colourless (seriously - not even freckles!) skin.
Surely it’s not the first time you’ve seen someone enroute from the library. Or is it the phrase “dedicated student” that doesn’t make sense?
I must admit, the thought makes me raise my eyebrow is disbelief too.
And why did I get all those books anyway? I’m a notoriously slow reader, who has little interest in any book that any self-respecting individual would find degrading (Stephanie, I’m looking at you). I don’t have a particular passion for the industrial revolution. Nor do I have a particular devotion to the labouring classes in early nineteenth century England.
I am, however, a bitch.
And the book I wanted was out.
The book I needed was not there.
So I reserved it (next in line - yush!).
And sought revenge by taking out every other book on the subject.
Those looks were so worth it.
And I’m not using the term ‘load’ for the casual, colloquial meaning it has when it rolls in and hides in the middle of your sentence.
I’m using it in the way you’d say “trailer load of bricks”.
Or “that baby just dropped a load”.
I carried them back to my place.
Granted, it’s not far. But I couldn’t see for looking over them, and my jacket did this weird twisty thing as my pants started falling down, so you could see bare hip and knickers. On only one side.
And the expressions that people had when they saw me coming (and I struggled to avoid a front row view of what’s happening up my nostrils as I balanced the top of the pile of books with my chin) would have been entertaining if they were directed at someone else. But directed at me, they invoked sheer terror.
Who are these people and why are they judging me?
I’m sorry I stood on your foot.
I’m sorry I kicked your small child (but in all fairness, you saw me coming - slowly. Why didn’t you move them? Why must my boots do your job?)
I’m sorry you were momentarily blinded by the glare from my pale, colourless (seriously - not even freckles!) skin.
Surely it’s not the first time you’ve seen someone enroute from the library. Or is it the phrase “dedicated student” that doesn’t make sense?
I must admit, the thought makes me raise my eyebrow is disbelief too.
And why did I get all those books anyway? I’m a notoriously slow reader, who has little interest in any book that any self-respecting individual would find degrading (Stephanie, I’m looking at you). I don’t have a particular passion for the industrial revolution. Nor do I have a particular devotion to the labouring classes in early nineteenth century England.
I am, however, a bitch.
And the book I wanted was out.
The book I needed was not there.
So I reserved it (next in line - yush!).
And sought revenge by taking out every other book on the subject.
Those looks were so worth it.