All you really need is a good rack.

Lets face it, in most cases all guys really care to notice are your rack or your rear end.

If the person is looking only into your eyes and not twitching, there has got to be something wrong.

Being a book buyer I get to see a lot of racks, much more than the average idiot.

An apartment with a room full of books and the stink of a randy mutt which was incessant on dry humping my leg, it is not like I dislike dogs, I fucking love ’em, getting dry humped is just not my deal.Two racks in this apartment were up for sale and the selection was good.

A studio apartment with one rack, a bed and piles and piles of books all over the place, the place smelled like an old book store.

An apartment with a room full of books in boxes.

An apartment with a rack full of books which the owner thought was a huge selection, which actually was not. The mix of books was good though.

A duplex with the staircase to the terrace piled high from floor to ceiling with romance novels, ugh. First thought that came to mind was a fire insurance scam to liberate the words to sweet ashes.

An empty shell of an apartment with piles and piles of comics, a couple of racks of non-fiction primarily concerning the human condition.

A drawing room with one wall covered by a rack, divided into 3 sections for each roomie.

A basement library, with a bar.

A hovel with a treasure of books and a bong.

I feel a little like Thomas the “window washer” from Kundera’s Unbearable lightness of being.

Thing is having a weakness for books plays its part, eyes dilate, weakness in knees happens, butterflies in the stomach, all that jazz.

Kind of when you are in love and just listing to that one song gives you your dopamine rush.

That feeling before your eyes refocus and your head tilts a little.

One good rack can cut it.

To this song.


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