Into the haze of this city

Things have been pretty serious around here lately and so I felt it was hightime I injected some more of my abundant shallowness back into cyberspace.

*

I dislike it immensely when guys try to hit on me when I'm spelunking for books. (No specific genre, just books, if you're wondering whether it's just about your irrational fear that I could be found holding one in my hands while someone, especially of the other sex, looks on.)

As I am often on my hands and knees, burrowing in the black holoes of musty old bookshelves of cheapass bookstores, I see it as a distinct disadvantage when some guy comes up to me and I am eye-level with his knees.

Anyway, this morning, after three hours of mindless joy, I threw Rachel Gibson to the floor (where it promptly went up in smoke, given this morning's -- or yesterday's -- temperature). There I was, bookless. Because Umberto Eco is too much Book to successfully launch me to the non-thinking state I've always wanted to acquire this summer. And Tracy Thompson reminds me too mcuh of my own depression. And I'm saving Neil Gaiman for an airport. And Elisabeth Robinson only reminds me of the cancer that, thankfully, never-was.

I needed books. No fucking way was I reading John Grisham, Tom Clancy or Danielle Steel, all of which were lying around in my lola's house. (I have standards -- *insert snooty sniff here*. HA.)

So I travelled to the edges of the Metro, to get my hands on some cheap-ass reads.

Which brings us back to the hitting-on-me thing while I'm doing the looking-for-books thing.

I think I was in a fairly decent pose, in fairly decent clothing. I was in travel wear: cotton shirt (with a cartoon cow), skinny jeans, orange flats. My hair was in its don't-talk-to-me messy bun, I had on my librarian glasses. I even had the rust purse thing going on. And it wasn't like I stuck my ass out there, where everyone could trip over it, or get the urge to tap it and ask if it wants to have coffee at the corner, the body attached to it, optional.

I am looking for something to read, you dolts. This is not my come-hither pose.

I think I succeeded in banishing them away with two books written by authors raved about by critics but have never actually seen the light of day on a bookstore bookshelf. Jane Heller for some "Hi, I'm an idiot!" reading (I hurled the book across the room by the time I crawled to the middle -- hey, it's thirty bucks) and Amanda Marquit (who?) for some hardbound-loving piece of angst, angst, angst.

And no, if you're curious, I didn't buy any of my trashy novels. Walang mura eh, haha.

Well, with all this ranting and raving about my precious little pleasures, at least alam niyo na kung ano yung ireregalo niyo sa'kin sa birthday ko. And you won't even worry about corrupting me -- not only because I am already corrupted, but that I am eighteen, and thus perfectly legal to practice the corruption on myself.

Yey.