Bowling Over

I'm angry, so I head to the library. I do all my best anger over there. Too angry to eat. I pass junk food shops and save those coupla bucks for later in the week.

I'm angry. And I'm wrong. I don't deserve it- in this instance - to be angry. And I know that. Which of course makes me angrier. I see my face in the mirrored walls of the library elevator. Hard and little and bitter. Like I wash toilets for a living. The second floor houses the literature, which I find funny, because isn't everything in the library literature? Supposedly? And there are two signs pointing off in different directions. One says literature the other says fiction. 'I shall be telling this with a sigh ages and ages hence...' I chose fiction. I always choose fiction.

I sit down to write. But I have no pen. I steal two little library pencils - the sharpest ones I can find, which aren't very sharp - and start grindig them into the page.

What kind of writer doesn't even carry a mother fucking pen?

"It's my own fault," I say, trying to be a man about it all, rub dirt in it, rein it in. I never was much good at sucking it up. I'm good at feeling feelings and letting them run wild like unkemt children. Sometimes the noise is good. It's a distraction. And sometimes my feelings drive me eggnog. Like now.

All these books at the library, nobody reads 'em. I checked out a book last winter that hadn't been read since 1987. I think it was Proust. No one reads the classics. Maybe Bukowski was right. Maybe libraries really are full of worthless shit. I just read that yesterday in a book of his I checked out of the library. There's irony in that, Charles, if only you were here to appreciate it.

Even Bukowski hasn't been checked out in two years. I know why he didn't like libraries: there are no bottles here to throw. I'd throw one in your honor, Chuck, if I had one. Right here there's no bottles, tho, only books. Books and pencils and me with my anger and my wrongness. I wanna bite something.

Damnit.

There's a row of romance novels staring me down. Large Print.
(I wonder what he's doing right now.)
Most of them have sappy titles like: Honor's Splendour, Her Heart's Delight...
(I bet he's oblivious and happy. Probably laughing.)
...Lion's Lady, Prince Charming, Heartbreaker, Rebellion's Desire...
(never was good at fighting for something I wanted.)
...The Bride, Gentle Warrior, Change of Heart...
(or rather someone.)
...Ransom, Thorns of Truth, The Wedding.
Who comes up with this crap? It gives me new appreciation for amazing titles. Amazing titles are pretty amazing if you think about it. Any title that makes me want to read a whole book is pretty fucking amazing.

It's not working. I'm still writing and I'm still angry. I haven't even worn out the dumpy little pencil stub I'm using. So I'm going back. I got ahead of myself, that's all. I imagined more than I should have. I know better. I will know better. I'll pace myself.