Today was a very, very, very busy day at the library. We’d been closed for three days because of the New Year’s holiday, which gave all of our patrons time to read the books they’d borrowed, then scour their own shelves for more reading material, then think about all the books they don’t really need anymore, fill several boxes with them, and bring them down to donate to the library. I lifted, scanned, toted, flipped through, checked in, checked out, and redirected all the books today. All of them. In the world. Anything left over was moldy and I recycled it, but if you go through the bins behind our branch you can have them, spider nests and all. You’re welcome.
The other thing that happened today was people kept asking, “How are you?” On a normal day, maybe three people ask me that, and I say, “Fine. How are you?” But as the day wore on and my mood wore on in an equivalent manner, people kept asking me, “How are you?” like there was something going wrong with my face, and the more they asked the more I wanted to say, “I don’t feel like answering that,” or “Why do you care?” or “I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear you,” because I really didn’t want to say, “Fine,” I wanted them to stop asking. But I couldn’t because they were always so nice about it, and filled with holiday cheer. Finally, I just turned my back and started reading a donated Cesar Milan book, because if he could save Banjo the anti-social lab rescue dog from euthanasia, maybe he could save me, too.