A nice outdoorsy man sells books sometimes outside of the Student Union. He's got crooked teeth and wears a bucket hat. His book collection has been accumulating since he was five. I like buying books from him because they're really cheep and they all have a living history. I bought E.M. Forster's The Longest Journey and Dostoyevsky's The Brothers Karamazov for five dollars yesterday. I usually have to justify myself to all the critics here, especially with books and shit. I knew I probably would not read them anytime soon, but I admire the guy and his great collection.
I was preparing my brief about why I bought these books when I bumped into a friend who I hadn't seen in a while. We decided to play pool like we did a lot last semester. I left my books in the pool hall and didn't even notice they were missing until this morning. I felt kind of unhappy for a couple reasons before that and realizing that I had forgotten about those books all day brought me lower. I eventually tried to gloss over the mishap and chance upon the books, but after an entire Friday night I didn't have much hope. When I got to the pool hall, I was happy to find the Forster book where I left it. The other one was gone. I know Dostoyevsky's hot, and that's why I bought his book. I guess the motherfucker who stole my book must have decided that Dostoyevski was worthy of theft but not Forster. Or he also knows Dostoyevsky's hot. I would rather both gone. I didn't buy them together for them to be compared and judged the way this fucker did. I wanted to read the books in the summertime. Now I only have what someone believes to be the lesser of the two.
I'm going to watch Nailin Palin in the lecture hall now, free to hate the player and the game.