Piles of Books

J has left me in her apartment today while she’s at work. I’m in the centre of Melbourne and yet decided to spend the day holed up inside, for I had the very, very best of intentions regarding a certain ethics textbook and accompanying unwritten essay, and it was going well, up to a point. Wake up and snooze the alarm for a not-unreasonable length of time. Check. Rifle through J’s cupboards for some of her favourite clothes you haven’t been able to wear in months. Check. Tea and toast. Check. Pack bag with textbooks, laptop and other miscellany of productivity. Check. Sit on lounge to pull on Mum’s old leather boots, now your favourite boots. Check.

At this point I was distracted by the books on the carpet which J had thoughtfully arranged into various piles – ‘books to make you feel smarter’, ‘books to make you move to Melbourne’, ‘books to help you save money’, and ‘happy happy fiction time’. And so, down the perilous slope I went. With glee.

Day spent reading various snippets of The Polysyllabic Spree, Stasiland, McSweeneys and the latest Frankie. Check.

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