A big fuck you to books and the forces of inertia

You don’t wanna fuck with me. I’m a tough macho dude. I’ve been doing pushups and have greater tricep development than I’ve had before. I read T-Nation sometimes. I listen to aggressive music. I drink black coffee. I swear. As in I use swear words, I mean. Seriously I fucking swear so much, like a damn shit-ton of Christ-ass piss curses from hell. I climb on monkeybars, practically daily. And I’m fucking fearless, almost. The only things that make me afraid are the things all tough guys are afraid of, like expressing emotions, and being vulnerable, and apologizing, and being wrong, and embarrassment, and heights, and dying alone, and spiders, and bugs, and the dark, and noises outside my house, and taking risks, and letting down people I care about, and finding out I’m fundamentally inadequate as a person. So back the fuck up.

Specifically, I mean you two lurking there. I see you looking over my shoulder. You stacks of library books. Fuck you, books. You stop hollering at me to take you back to the library. I’m done with you, you’re not done with me, I’ll return you when I’m good and ready. I’m the one in charge here. I collect library fines like the skulls of my opponents. Ten, twenty, forty, I don’t even care (that’s DOLLARS, I’m talking. I told you, I don’t give a fuck. Err, I did tell you, right? If not, I hereby inform you that the set of those from whom fucks are provided is a set which contains in its membership nothing called me.)

Okay, see [I say, peering through a hole bored through the fourth wall] here’s what’s going on you guys, these stacks of books, I totally want to take them back to the library. Right now, today, actually, yesterday, day before. It feels urgent. Most days I don’t even care about these books. I care so little I forget they’re there. That’s why I rack up big library fines so much. It sucks to waste money and sometimes that freaks me out - that’s another one for the fear list, oh and while I’m at it I should mention an evolving cloud of hypochondriac fears, mostly recently one about what will happen if I don’t stop grinding my teeth - but I’m also like ‘whatever, it’s money for the library, I like the library, they can have a bit of my money sometimes.’ So I’m all ‘return my books? meh.’ But today I care. Maybe urgent was the wrong word. It’s not like “I must take these back now, the stakes are high!” It’s more like the books have an alarm on them that keeps ringing. ATTENTION: LIBRARY BOOKS. Today I’m all “I should take those back RIGHT NOW, I’ll be such a good institutional citizen, taking back books I don’t need anymore, plus it will declutter my work area!”

This book stack alarm really started ringing when I sat down to figure out what I need to work on. I’d been away for a few days and am just back to work today. There’s no actual literal metaphorical factual (uhh… punctual factional?) book alarm. The books are ringing because I’m ringing. I’ve got some big stuff I need to get to and I’m intimidated by it so ‪I’m taking the energy of being nervous about that and transferring it to this stack of books (oh and I really should clean my desk, and isn’t it about time I start to educate myself about current events, and you know, I haven’t picked a new recipe to try out in a while, that would be a nice thing to do for my family…). It’s all just in order to try to avoid the thing I’m intimdated by but to feel like I’m still being productive.‬ Part of my mind is tossing smoke bombs, basically, to obscure the stuff I really ought to be working on. These books are proxies in the running conflict between the forces of actually accomplishing things and the forces of laying on the floor humming to myself. Fuck off, floor forces, don’t you know I’m a tough guy? For real, fuck off. Hmm. How about this: please fuck off. Pretty please?

Hey what time does the library close anyway? BRB just gonna check real quick