Hmm. So I’m at home at the minute and…and my mum has pretty much stolen all of my books. No, not “pretty much”, she HAS stolen all of books.
I didn’t notice last night. I was too sleepy and too excited at being home. So sleepy and so excited that I skipped around the whole house and then fell fast asleep on the couch. It wasn’t until this morning that I realised that every single shelf in the house is filled with my books.
When did that happen?
I haven’t been home since Christmas so I’m guessing sometime between then and now.
I don’t know if I should say anything. Does she know that I’m planning on having a library room in the house of my dreams? Probably. Does she know that when that happens I will drive home in a big van and take all of my childhood and teenage books? Probably not.
I get that they were just piling up in my bedroom for no one to see and that they’re probably a lot happier in the shelves Mum has put them in, but it just means that I won’t be able to take them. Because how can I? I know I said I would, but I can’t rip them from their beloved home. If they were still in boxes and sad piles in my bedroom, they’d GLADLY come with me to my new house with a fancy library, but they’re happy where the are now and they’d only be sad and scared if I moved them. AND they wouldn’t know the books of my adult (ish) years. What if those books make fun of them or think them stupid?
For the love of god, what the hell am I talking about? You see? This is what happens when you get writer’s block. You start writing absolute shit. I’d be really impressed if you’re still reading. Really, REALLY impressed.
I’ll just stop now.