No More Books

I am 34 and I live with my parents. I have since I was 31. It’s not entirely my fault. You see, I lived on my own since college and many years after. I had an apartment with my best friend. We frequently needed our mothers to come out and help us clean because we’d get so buried in stuff that neither one of us knew what to do. We would declare a Cleaning Day, and then we would both stand in the living room, staring at all the crap. Then we would sit down in the living room and talk about how much crap we accumulated. Then we’d turn on the tv and Cleaning Day would be over. Not only did our mothers come to help us clean, but friends would as well. They would be so disgusted by the mess we lived in that they would randomly start picking things up when they came over.

We learned to ignore it. When the living room got so bad we couldn’t stand it, we would just avoid the living room and pretend it wasn’t there. We would come and go through the back door to avoid the living room altogether. Then the kitchen would get bad, so we would eat out. When we finally did get a clean apartment, either through our mothers or us getting some strange, most likely drug induced, streak of motivation, we would celebrate by having a party. We’d see how clean and nice our apartment was – and really, when it was clean, it was a NICE apartment – and we’d think, hey, this needs things that light up and glow. And if we have things that light up and glow, that means we have to have a party. So we’d make our apartment look totally awesome, go all out with alcohol and food, and have people over. Then the apartment would become a mess, and we’d come out of our rooms the morning after the party, look at the living room, and not know what to do. This cycle repeated for about 10 years.

When my best friend died, I had to move out of our amazing apartment. I moved into Paul Floriano’s basement. Paul Floriano is an actor who had randomly asked me a month or two earlier if I knew anyone who wanted to live in his basement. It was a nice basement. We moved all my stuff in there, and all of my wonderful friends and family who helped said that I was not allowed to buy another book, because moving boxes of books sucked.

While I was at Paul’s house, my very own mother encouraged my book buying habit by buying me bookshelves to go in my basement living room. I filled them. And then I accumulated more books and filled boxes with them.

After two years underground I felt the extreme need to live above ground. I couldn’t afford to live in an apartment by myself and no one existed who was willing to live with me and my cat. So we moved to my parents house….with my books. I had to pay movers this time because the thought of moving all my crap was overwhelming. They came down to the basement after giving me an estimate over the phone, saw my boxes of books, and added $100 to the cost.

At my parent’s house I have two bedrooms, which I quickly turned into a bedroom and a library. I lined the walls with bookshelves…and filled them. And then some. Then I emptied the closet of everything and installed more shelves…and I filled them. I have a lot of books at this point.

My parents declared that I may not bring another book into the house, and if I do, I will be forced to move into an apartment and figure out how to pay for it. I think I would actually cause less trouble if I were a crack addict. No one minds helping a friend move their crack. Crack doesn’t take up a lot of room. Crack is portable. Crack doesn’t need shelves. And crack addicts are always skinny, which is a definite plus. While I was on the verge of deciding to become a crack addict, The Boy stepped in and bought me a Kindle with an orange case. Now I read books on there! As many as I want! My purse is no longer stuffed with 4 books at a time and instead it holds, like, purse things. But then…I want to own the books I read. I want them in hardback. I want them in my hands. It’s not enough to just read them, I NEED TO TOUCH THEM.

So now I’m back to considering crack. I’m pretty sure crack addicts don’t read, anyway, and I’d probably have to sell my books for crack money, so it’d solve a lot of problems.

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