So here’s the thing.
I have a lot of books. I don’t think you can end up at Harvard without reading a lot of books, but there’s a lot of books, and then there’s me. I have a sick amount of books. This was made clear to me when I had to ship 22 BOXES OF BOOKS to my mother before moving here. Alex and Carrie are officially saints for helping me pack and ship them.
Those 22 boxes were AFTER I had sold or donated 8 huge bags of books. So, needless to say, I was already feeling like a bit of a bibliophile when I got here.
That was before I opened a closet here and saw an ominous stack of boxes labeled “Olivia’s Books.”
“Mom,” I said, apprehensive. “These are just boxes you repacked, right? Like, there’s just a bunch of blenders and socks in these…?”
“Oh, no! Somehow those ended up here when I moved out from Massachusetts. I figured you’d come get them eventually.”
“So they’re books. Like, actual books? Like, my books?”
“Yeah. You can’t have had that many at your apartment, could you? There’s so many here!”
If she only knew…
So, all told, there are over 30 boxes of books here. They range from nice little eight-pounders to boxes I’m sure my mother had to get two of the movers to carry. And now I’m supposed to find a place for all of them. Have I mentioned that my last apartment was lined in built-in bookshelves? And that right now, this apartment has one $30 Ikea bookshelf I bought two days ago, in a fit of delusional optimism?
Help, someone. Pretty soon I’m going to look like this:
Anybody want some books?
No, wait, actually I will sleep on them. I will hide them in closets. I can’t give up my books. It’s like that Ke$ha song (and yes, I put the dollar sign in there because it is all part of what makes her AWESOME), only my books are my drug. But they don’t have a beard.
And if you don’t get that culture reference, we are no longer friends.
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