I like you am a book thief. This is my story. It is a shameful story. It is a laughable story. But it is mine.
There's a bookstore where I lived, decades ago. It's one of the ugliest little places I've ever been to. Why is that? Because it doesn't deal in literature at all. No, only what the common (philistine) man peruses. You know the deal, don't you? Genre nonsense. Imitations of imitations, as Tolstoy put it. It angered me, so one evening I surreptitiously threw a brick through the entrance and entered illegally. It had no security features, the store, so I was fine. I knew this.
I intended to steal all of the most popular books. I didn't know why. But it felt like a big, neon flipoff in the night directed at all the hideous, loathsome, fat dullards this small town contained. It was exciting. At once I moved to the most popular section - that for young adults. The books were categorized by author, which made it easy to home in on the big ones. I stopped before a shelf labeled "JK Rowling". Yes, this would do.
Sweat cascading down my face and torso, I shoveled another load of Harry Potter books into the sack. My erection throbbed in my pants. This was it. The ultimate thrill. The highest in adrenal excitement. I moved over to the next shelf. This one was for Dan Brown. In my excitement I tipped over the whole shelf and it fell on me with a resounding smack. I lost consciousness, temporarily, and awoke in terror. Had I been discovered? -- No. It was only 3 and a half in the morning, and I was still alone. I struggled to right the bookcase and got on all fours to lift up book after book and place them in my bulging sack. I was panting and sweating like a hog.
Soon, the sack was so heavy (Stephen King, John Grisham, Chuck Palahniuk) that I could not lift it. I could barely drag it along the floor. It sagged like a horrid distended gut. My eyes widened, my nostrils flared. I decided to decrease the load a tad, and spent the next several hours going through every book I had bagged, discarding those that seemed less appealing to the public. Soon, the sun had risen and I was surrounded by scattered books. Then, lightning struck metaphorically. No. I could not leave them like this. It was too simple. Grunting and heaving, I refilled the sack with all the books I had discarded. Passersby were looking into the store. Soon its owner would arrive to open it. Think, I thought. Think. I must find a way.
I used all of my meager sedentary strength to drag the sack towards the door, inch by inch, minute by minute. This would not do, I could not do it. Rage supplanting despair, I found my trusty zippo lighter and tried to set the sack on fire. It did not work. I doused it in my urine, hoping this would feed the flames, but that didn't work either. Howling in inept frustration, I set upon the books with my hands, tearing out the pages and shredding them to pieces. But I didn't have time.
In the end, I was institutionalized. But the store shut down.
