got here 6:55am. on a Sunday! what the?????? i must be completely out of my mind. my face and hands are beginning to itch. all for what? noone gives two shits that i'm cleaning the stacks. they don't notice how perfectly the titles line up, how the covers are dust free...
in the great scheme of things, what i'm doing won't save the world, this little corner of my life is so ridiculous, so supremely dumb. i push and push myself to take on overwhelming tasks. for what? for snobby little hands to rip pages and mis-shelf the f's in the u's...
i'm an idiot. the worst kind, i am, the worst. i'll spend too much time straightening corners, making sure the colors coordinate, taping loose pages to their brothers and sisters, making sure they stay put...
but overhung with crazy vines, and wild unruly leaves, with broken eggshells and empty milk dud cartons, tear drenched kleenex tissue, and pieces of my broken heart, litters the inside of me...