Congratulations Book That Can Fly!

You’re a sentient book that can fly.

Today, while fluttering across the sky you’ll suddenly be torn from your flight by a rabid middle-aged woman wearing a pair of glasses on a chain with her hair in a bun.

“MUST FILE!” she’ll crow as she smoothes your pages and clutches you to her chest before pressing you into a shelf, somewhere, by some eldritch binding.

Your mind will reel, dreaming of escape: of flight from the library.

Congratulations Book That Can Fly!

Congratulations on Telling Her How You Really Feel!

“Look, it’s just… It’s too big for me.”

By her facial expression it’ll be immediately apparent that she’ll think you’re talking about her vagina. You’ll scramble to recover.

“Not that! The books.”

You’ll let your hand rest on the pile of George R.R. Martin books that she’ll have stacked next to your bed. They’ll rise above the box frame and mattress that you sleep on. If you were standing you think they’d come over your knee, but you won’t want to stand. You’ll know that this is a tender moment, and that standing up would destroy any chance the two of you have at making it through together. So you’ll pat those books and look at her with your doe-iest of eyes.

“I don’t know if I can read all of these.”

She’ll shrug at you, unwashed hair shuffling over her eyes with the gesture. “I’m reading your dumb book.” She’ll punctuate her sentence by trying to blow some of her hair off her face futilely. A single strand will lift up and then fall back down across her nose. It’ll be adorable.

You’ll sigh. “Neuromancer is like half the length of one of these books. And you said you liked it.”

She’ll lean her shoulders forward and fold her arms so that her breasts press against them. It’ll look kind of uncomfortable, but it’ll also accentuate how big her breasts are and make you want to push her back on your bed and just make out with her until she forgets about books. But that would, at best, postpone this conversation and, far more likely, backfire disastrously, and you’ll know it. So you’ll take your hand off the book pile and spin around on your ass so you’re sitting down facing her criss-cross-applesauce. She’ll look up at you from her breasts through a tangled network of vines of hair.

“I don’t wanna dismiss your interests, and I really like you. And I’ll try to read one of them. But I started the first one and I’m not sure I like it. That doesn’t mean I don’t like you, it just means I don’t like something as much as you do. But I don’t want you to think the way I feel about the books is the way I feel about you. Or us.” You’ll crane your head underneath her chin so you’re looking up at her. “Maybe we can compromise.”

She’ll mumble something in response. You’ll lean in close to hear her better, ear turned towards her, eyes fixed indistinctly on your own sheets, the unspoken question, when did I change these last?

Her response will be unexpected. First the lips, then the tongue, then her teeth lapping upwards across your ear. Then her hands on your arms, spinning you into place, pushing you back with the strength and speed of shock until she’s sitting on top of you, jeans against your jeans, fabric already beginning to strain in wonderful agony. She’ll lean in close to your face so her hair hangs over you too, so you’re inside of the vines now, looking up at her eyes, nose, lips.

“I said I guess you only have to read the first one,” she’ll murmur down, no louder than before. You’ll hear her just fine this time.

“That sounds fair,” you’ll whisper back up. Her lips will split, expose teeth, and then you’ll lose sight of them as her mouth darts towards yours.

Congratulations on Telling Her How You Really Feel!

Congratulations on Reading a Fucking Book for a Change!

Today you’re going to be actress Megan Fox, and you’re going to try reading a fucking book for a change.

“I don’t like this,” you’ll whine, throwing your Caesar salad (minus the dressing, cheese and croutons) at your assistant as he tells you it’s not his decision.

“This is hard,” you’ll tell your latest boyfriend as he does his best to pretend you’re not there, playing the latest video game on his Box Station: Movement Plus.

“Why do I have to do this?” you’ll ask your agent as she shouts her lungs out at Michael Bay, trying to convince him to expand your role in the next terrible Transformers movie.

“Aggh!” you’ll shout at your empty Hollywood town home, hurling the book at the wall. “Who writes these things?” you’ll scream at no one in particuular.

If the book could answer it would. It would tell you that it is a copy of The Giver, written by Lois Lowry. It would tell you that while reading is more difficult than, say, doing cocaine and yelling at poor people, it is also a good deal more rewarding. It will want to tell you all these things, but it will only be a book, and it will not be able to speak with you.

Congratulations on Reading a Fucking Book for a Change!