Dear, She-Who-Will-Not-Be-Named,
We became friends in the sixth grade, not just the
school-grounds-only kind of friends either. We were the sleepover-every-weekend-eat-junk-food-talk-about-boys
kind of friends. This meant that you knew me well, better than most people, in
fact, which means you should have known one of the most elemental things about
me: I love to read. That is not a trivial fact, an amusing side-attribute, or a piece of my
pie. It’s the whole damn pie. I am a bibliophile, heart and soul. I would rather
sit in my front yard and read a good book than do almost anything else. I have
a Pinterest page titled, “Books <3.” My bookshelf is always pristine, and I
care for my books like a mother cares for her children. Better to run into a mother bear robbed of her cub than to damage one of my books. So, because you were my
friend, I assumed you would care for my book in the same manner to which it was
accustomed. What made your crime so horrific was that it wasn't just some book
pulled from the bottom of my shelf. It was one of my favorites. One of those
books I hate to lend people because I might spontaneously get the urge to read
it for the nth time, and be unable to
get my fix. Biblio-addictions are a bitch. I could not, however, in good conscious keep you from the reading
the glorious book that you requested. I may be vindictive, but I'm not that heartless. So, I lent it to you. When you received it,
it looked practically new. No one would have been able to tell just by looking
at it that I had already read it five consecutive times. When you rudely
returned it to me three months later—I mean seriously, three months? It's not
exactly War and Peace—it was mangled.
The protective cover was bent in several places. It had a black mark on the
back. It had scratches all over it, and the first half of the book had
water damage, or should I say mysterious red liquid damage: Blood? Fruit Punch? I didn't taste it to see. There were also bizarre grooves on the first couple pages that looked like you took a fork
them; quite energetically, in fact. When you handed me back my fallen loved one, I was torn between wanting to
cry and wanting to backhand you. If someone asked me why we are no longer
friends, I would probably say something along the lines of “We’re different
kinds of people now” or “Because I have standards and integrity” In reality,
this is not the case. I refrain from divulging my true motivation because it
would sound petty, and, let’s face it, completely crazy. The truth is, I may
never forgive you for what I have come to label The Book Debacle of 2011.
Truly
no longer yours,
Lakynne
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