What the fuck went wrong in my life that my definition of fun is ordering 19 books at 4 am in the morning. 19 goddamn books.
Some people would honor that, but not me, no. As I tentatively hover my cursor over the checkout button, I warily eye the 19 books I’ve stacked in there, half of which I already own – not that edition though, so yeah it’s justified, thank you very much – and I wonder: Do I really need these 19 fucking books? Do I really need to spend all this money on books I’ve already read and possibly know the content by heart, could even recite the first 5 pages word by word, without so much as glancing at the title (We’re talking Harry Potter and the philosophers stone, obviously. It’s a talent, I know). Is it essential for my survival that I buy the third copy of Harry Potter and the prisoner of Azkaban (the third English one of course, don’t you underestimate my lack of self restraint), just because this has a different cover? “IT’S THE SAME FUCKING WORDS IN THERE” I cry as a voice in the back of my head, quietly at first, then growing to a raging roar once I consider even going near the “delete” button, insists: SIGNATURE COPY.
I suspiciously eye the sum staring at me from the bottom of the page, taunting red numbers that I swear I can hear quietly laughing at me. My head races through all the money I spent this month, adding little expenses and big ones, as it takes up a soft shaking motion, No, no you can’t afford this, stop, but my fingers keep clicking.
No, I decide, this is no fun. Whoever decided online shopping should be a thing, definitely never experienced such pain.
I worry my lip between my teeth for a while, gaze scanning through the books to see which I can let go of, what kind of loss could be bearable. I remove one book from my cart. I feel better. I should check out, but…well, let’s just keep looking In case I find an even better book to maybe replace one of my earlier choices.
It’s an hour later – you guys, this is a true story, stay with me – when I’ve added three more books and go to finally check out. I spend a few more minutes trying to figure out if I really want this. My bookcase keeps creaking, shooting me accusing glances from across the room and I briefly wonder if what I am doing here is the right thing.
But in a rush of adrenaline, unstoppable excitement that lasts a whole 30 seconds, I click on buy, type in my bank details. I can always return them, right?
Less than a week later I’ve already forgotten all about what I went through. A guy in his mid-thirties delivers my monster of a package, stares daggers at me, his fake smile plastered to his face in a schooled expression, why his eyes read “Your debit card should be taken away from you IMMEDIATELY” I consider mentioning that those are books in there, and those are important, right? We need to educate ourselves? I did a good thing? I opt for a weak smile instead, mumble thank you and hope the sincere apology in my eyes shows.
I cram the copies I already own into my bookcase, put the rest on my evergrowing to-read stack, a stack of twentysomething books that towers ominously over my bed. I don’t return a single one.