It was a dark and stormy night. Rain gushed out of the sky like tiny cold bullets. CRACK. Thunder. The lights in the library went out. When they turned back on, a man sat dead.
No, I’m totally kidding. It was actually a beautiful day yesterday. In fact, it’s been quite lovely out all week, no, month. I spent much of the day in the library though. See, I do actually go to school kind of, and once in a while, there are things to do. Like write essays. Stupid essays. For classes where the professor tells you to go to one library for sources but the sources are actually not there so you have to go to a different library but then the books are already taken out so you have to change your topic but then have to return to the first library for those sources. True story.
But you don’t want to hear about that. You want to hear about the mysterious dead man in the library.
He wasn’t dead, actually. Not literally, at least. Maybe metaphorically. See, he’s this middle aged guy who falls asleep sitting up in the library every day. Every day surrounded by books. I counted 18 of them yesterday. Maybe they make him feel smart, I dunno. I left my station to make a bathroom run and saw him crouched over with his chin tucked into his chest, twitching once in a while. If I’d have stayed, I probably would have heard him snoring. Ok, guy’s tired. We’ve all been there before.
But this wasn’t just an isolated occasion. No, I have been informed that he’s there every day. Just sleepin’ with his books. All day ‘err day.
And this is when I decided that no matter how much I complain about having to write an essay, I’m not that guy— the guy who falls asleep in the library with his books. And probably snores.
Life could be worse.