Being a journalism student, we are often bombarded with heavy topics, big-ass discussions about the current happenings and future predictions, precautions and causes, etcetera.
Hence, a few of my earlier posts have been a tad heavy, focusing on the proceedings of today’s destructive world.
However, I am a person known to twist and weave jokes into the stringent most scenarios. So, here I am, taking a break, nay, a free pass from the vortex of pure journalism to be the goofball I pride myself to be.
Recently, I visited the nearest Crossword outlet because I had a couple of hours to kill.
Now, to say that I am an ardent reader would be a travesty; because, I am a book-maniac. A literary lunatic. Also, a psychopath by the way I’m saying these things proudly..
As soon as I walked into my temple, the smell of print, pages and memories hit me hard and I had to breathe deeply to prevent swooning.
You’d think I’m exaggerating but you’d be surprised.
I made my wobbly way to the fiction section (don’t judge me, I don’t do well with reality, clearly) and began plucking books out, stuffing them in my arms. Soon, I looked like a tower of leaning books (yes, I tried out a pun here. You didn’t notice?.. Awkward.. Never the less..) and one of the people working at Crossword had to rush their way to me to help me stabilize my stack.
As I sat on one of those oh-so-comfortable seats, reading the synopses of the books, awwing at some, oohhing at others, I heard a snicker. I ignored it, and continued smelling the books like a freak.
More silent squealing, if that’s even possible.
Unable to take it anymore, I turned around and looked behind the shelf from between a couple of books.
And I saw a couple sitting there, being ostriches.
Ya know, ostriches have that tendency of sticking their head in the ground, thinking if they can’t see anyone, no one can see them.
And they happened to be.. doing.. gooey stuff. Ya know, stuff.
God dammit, guys.
It’s Crossword. It’s books. It’s the beauty of being in a place where you don’t need annoying human company. Where you can sit for hours and hours, floating in your own filth and crazy world, no one to bother you. Unless, you have a crappy helper. Don’t judge me, I had one of those. They are MEAN.
Of all the places couples can possibly sit and marvel at the perfection of one another or whatever crap they spew to get laid, they choose a Crossword outlet. Makes. Zero. Sense. And it gets me all riled up.
If you can think of being gooey even in a Crossword outlet, I have truly lost faith in our generation.