Friday, January 4


Having worked in Publishing for seven years I have quite the collection of books that I will never, ever read. I've donated tons of them to both the Queens and Jackson libraries. There's no point in keeping them if all they do is collect dust and/or act as a table while doing crosswords on the toilet.

Today I did what I assume most New Yorkers have resorted to when strapped for cash: I sold some books at The Strand. I lugged about twelve pounds of them from Astoria down to Union Square, trying not to think about how much money I'll make. I didn't want to get my childishly unrealistic hopes up, ie "I never have to work again! Yaaayyy!!"

How much did I make?? A whopping $25. The only other time I felt like this much of a loser was the Karaoke Rumpshaker Incident of '03.

Seriously, $25? I don't know what I was expecting to get or, for that matter, what would have been acceptable. Maybe $50?

I feel like I'm 19 again, back when I sold my CDs and charm necklaces to buy E.

Christ almighty. Self-humiliation rocks.

1 comment:

Bridget Rockstar!! said...

Hey, $25 can feed you for a week. That's nothing to shake a stick at!