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April 18, 2013 | Mollie Hawkins
Librarians have a certain … mystique. They’re strict gatekeepers to the world of books. Cataloguers of information. Guardians of story. Watchdogs of truth. Mollie’s not a librarian yet … well, actually Mollie’s a barista now. Confused? Keep reading.
Okay, dear reader. Confession time. So that loyal library worker thing didn’t really work out. It’s not so much that I wasn’t loyal — there was an opportunity to have a full time job at a coffee shop/cocktail bar that I’ve been digging on pretty hardcore for a few years now. So I left my dear library with a heavy heart and a head full of caffeine dreams.
So now, what do I write about? This is a question I’ve been chewing on for a few days now. I still need to think about it. I thought about calling myself The Caffeinator and writing about adventures in coffee, or about all the weird books I see people reading, or all the conversations I have with drunk people wanting decaf, or all the weird things I find left in coffee cups (popsicle sticks, gum, hair ties, maniacally shredded receipts, etc.), but that might get crazy. And I’d review the book I’m reading, but we all know that Mollie sucks at reviewing things (if someone asks me what I thought of ____ by author ____, my typical response is just “it was SO GOOD” or “it was SO BAD”). I’m not gonna do that to you guys. Plus, I’m not done with it yet.
I would like to talk to you for a minute about how frustrating it is to be reading a really good book and to never have time to actually read it. I refuse, absolutely refuse to be the person that says “I used to read so many books. I just don’t have time anymore,” because that is the saddest thing in the world to me. Screw that.
But really. Spare time gets shorter and shorter. Right now I’m reading Killing Yourself to Live by Chuck Klosterman, and it’s a really good read. I should know. I’ve spent at least a month with it. Ostensibly, it’s about a road trip across America to visit famous rock n’ roll death sites. But really it’s about his failed personal relationships; and his failed relationships make me feel better about my failed relationships. He screws up a lot of things and I screw up a lot of things.
I feel somehow justified in taking so long to read this book because I feel like me and Chucky-K — I’ve already given him a nickname — we’ve really bonded. He forgives me for falling asleep in the middle of a paragraph late at night when I’m listening to Radiohead on my headphones, and I forgive him for saying that Radiohead’s Kid A predicted 9/11 (though his logic is freakishly flawless, I have to admit). We have an understanding.
So you do what you can. A page here, a page there. I will finish this book. And then I will read Sex, Drugs, and Cocoa Puffs. And then it’ll be Christmas! I won’t torture you guys with a review when I’m done, but I’m just lighting a candle for all of you out there that, like me, are trying to find that balance between finishing a book and having a million other things to do, but the idea of not finishing it drives you crazy.
So I started this blog post telling you I wasn’t going to tell you about the book I’m reading, and then I told you about the book I’m reading. Dear reader. I’m sorry. Sort of.
Next time, I’ll tell you more about the weird stuff I find in coffee cups.
is was a library Page in Birmingham, Alabama.