My bookshelf tried to assassinate me this morning. I had thought it would appreciate my efforts to lend it an image evoking the Leaning Tower of Pisa. I thought I had treated it well, loading it with classics both fiction and non, providing it the finest inhabitants of history.
Instead it resisted me, resisted my wicked lust to place Calvin’s Institutes of the Christian Religion on it. It feared that this addition would constitute a defilement; that its honor would be compromised.
Why do I suspect that it had secret telepathic communication with Garfy the fat cat?
Alas, the bookshelf died a sad death this morning, for it could not have done the kind of damage to me that it sustained in its attempt at me. I, for one, would have advised against it!