I've toyed with the idea of writing a blog for ages but even though I'm the queen of narcissism (I rest my case) I've had the 'what to write' or should I say 'how much to divulge' dilemma. And this opening paragraph has me wondering how many others have plumped for disasterously similar opening paragraphs. But fuck it.
I'm going to tell you about something that irks me. People who lend me books. I was about to put a disclaimer in here where I point out that it's not every actual book lender that bothers me - but essentially it is. Because everyone that's ever lent me a book treats their books like porcelain dolls (vile things that they are aside).
'Don't bend the spine or crease the pages or smudge the ink or dirty the cover or...' I'll buy my own.
They have a purpose; they're not ornaments.
A lifetime of pent-up book-related rebellion eventually erupted and I decided I'd ruin my books. Not purposely. Like not go through the bookshelf with a hacksaw but as I read them I'll do what I want to them and yeah, probably be a bit overly aggressive with them. Treat them like indestructable items and if I destruct them then well, that's life. I'll read them in the bath and if they get wet so be it. I'll read them on the beach and if they get sandy so what? Lame it may sound to some but I know the rest are quaking at the very suggestion.
Who wants to borrow a pristine book? Surely if it's pristine it's crap?
If you ever borrow a book from me that I've actually read do so in the knowledge that it's been everywhere with me - and I mean everywhere. I won't be offended if you collect it in your marigolds and vow never (again) to return the lending favour.
At least I won't expect you to return my books accompanied by a certificate assuring acceptably low quantities of bacteria - but you could probably do with asking me for one.
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