it was tough. sorting through the bookshelves. fingering books, remembering their titles and why i wanted them. the pile in the middle of the floor grew and grew and grew. when all was said and done, there were 30+ books stacked up there. 30+ books that at one point in my life i was pretty sure i couldn’t live without.

i glared at some of the books as i put them in the box.

gah we were the mulvaneys you stink! i hated you. you were disappointing and anti-climactic. i don’t think i really care of joyce carol oates. you wasted my time and made me angry.

grr, you were so bad i couldn’t finish you! poor, poor, the all-true travels and adventures of lidie newton. jane smiley, you conned me. gave me such wonderful books in moo and a thousand acres. but sadly, i will not be the same fool twice. never again will i buy your books in hardcover.

the fatigue artist you were so damn dull, i have to peruse your pages again just to make sure i read you all the way through. i did, and now i remember why you were so very forgetable.

we meet again, anywhere but here. i thought maybe the movie would improve on the book. i was wrong. you both sucked giant donkey balls.

blue italian and mail, wolves in sheeps clothing, you! trite romances all dolled up like some kind of serious ficition. well, you got me. ha. but i win. i win you see, because i see your author’s have other books out. i looked at those books and it’s the same damn story under another name. cheaters! and i didn’t fall. i was smarter this time.

there were some books that i didn’t hate, but were pretty useless. . . just taking up space on my bookshelf:

rise to globalism made me a grin a sappy, sad smile. ohh, rise to globablism, how i loved thee. lenny gambrell talked so highly of you. but sadly, i will never rifle through your pages again. we had a good time, you and i, oh rise to globalism. do you remember the paper on tiannemen square? you helped me so. but you’re dated now and really, i am much too undisciplined to keep up on international relations. i am sorry.

what was i thinking, taking you? conner probably just wanted to get you off his shelf. and since i so admired and respected mr. conner you, journalism in a free society came home to live with me. i only read a few of the essays. nothing that memorable, really. i am sorry to say it, but you are not fit to decorate the shelf with four theories of the press and on liberty.

my sweet audrina, my sweet, sweet audrina. you lured me into the sordid world of v.c andrews when i was only 11. i fell hard for your purpley hardcover and the naughtiness and horror between your pages. arden kissed you where?? i wasn’t even sure why any girl would want any boy to kiss her right square on her girlparts, much less why a bolt of electricity coursed through your body when he did it. but oh i loved you, my sweet audrina.

sex signs. linda goodman’s love signs, romantic astrology, you’ve been replaced. it’s called the internet, and i love it so. i am sorry.

but i packed them all up. carted them to the used bookstore. where, i am pretty sure they raped me. gave me $7.00 for the whole crate. but that’s ok. i walked in with 30 books and left with three (brief interviews with hideous men, the story of a boy, the girl in the flaming skirt). ’tis a big step in jodiland. now i really must begin to rearrange my bookcases.