In
my previous two posts I explained how The Man picked me out of a group
of co-workers idling about, while I was eating some lunch, to ask
"Aren't you supposed to be shelving?"
I was mad.
If you have trouble understanding my outrage you might want to consider from the following possibilities:
1. You've had it very, very easy.
2. You've been beaten down by The Man.
or...
3. You're The Man.
I'm
not The Man. I haven't had it particularly easy. And I'm not beaten
down. So I toddled upstairs with a cart of books, eventually, and I
resolved to not shelve very much. Just to... make someone pay. Even if I wasn't really going to be able to make anyone in particular pay.
Then
I stood up there in the non fiction stacks writing angry blog posts
about The Man and occasionally shelving. Then I was just shelving. Then I
finished shelving my cart of books and realized that I was so mad I hadn't noticed
I'd shelved 20 minutes into my dinner hour.
Oh curse The Man!
But
I did get a trilogy of blog posts about it. And they will change the
world. And The Man everywhere will be gnashing their teeth. And finally,
after 30,000 tragic years, the little people will rise up, the sun will
come out, and everyone will be left the fuck alone for, like, five
minutes.
So there's that.
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