Let me tell you the story of how my bookcase betrayed me a few weeks ago.
The sky was gloriously unfurled, and the clouds not even in our hearts, the day we moved flat. It wasn’t too far so we took just a car. With great joy we started with the books *
|this is not even a 1/4 of the books in question|
- my books mixed with his books made for enough books to entirely tile the floor.
- my books mixed with his books could build a house of their own if they wanted, complete with a shed where we could store all the other things you need for a home like spatulas and love and cream cheese and internet.
- if you took my books mixed with his books and stretched them out in a line you’d have a line of my books mixed with his books but the important information here is it would be a very long line. A very very long line.
The next most logical thing to take were the things you keep books in. Books are, after all, intensely unhappy about being left anywhere but in their snug little homes. It was logical to take the bookcases. It was logical to carry them outside. It was logical that I should wear ballet pumps, having had an incident with my trainers rendering them incapacitated for the time being. **
Sensing the proximity of freedom, and unburdened from the warding all of those books, my bookcase made a bid for freedom. It wrenched against my palms, determined to take flight. I wrenched back. Mid-wrench, the bookcase — sensing imminent defeat, the consequences of refuting gravity and my far superior tactical knowledge of things like shelves and holding on tightly — decided to play dead.
That is how the bookcase fell, and collided with my unprotected foot, bouncing but leaving an unmistakable mark that oozed the teeniest bit of blood. Later, I would wave around my icepack — dripping water on the floor — as I paraphrased the incident saying “I DROPPED IT” or that “IT SLIPPED” but this is because bookcases are finnicky creatures who eat books if you’re mean to them. Not because maybe I actually dropped a bookcase on myself. Nope. Not because owning books is a dangerous endeavour. And, certainly not because I own slightly too many books.
There’s no real life lesson here except maybe don’t carry bookcases around in ballet pump shoes and that I may or may not own too many books. Do you have any book related accident stories?
*okay there was some amount of trepidation because I own A LOT OF BOOKS and books are heavy and the heat omg the heat
** which is a fancy way of saying I stepped on gum
*** just fyi my bookcase now has an instagram what am i like