so I took this mojito beer thing from the refrigerator and I snuck it upstairs and I’m thinking maybe I should have just taken a regular beer cause I can’t find the expiration date on this thing and it tastes like ass.
When I was going through customs there was a couple with a brand new baby that didn’t have a name yet and the customs dude was like “I can’t let someone into the country without a name to put on the form” and they’re like “but he doesn’t have a name yet” and the customs dude was like “well I dunno what I’m gonna do” so they named the baby after the customs dude right there
My eleventh grade English teacher was a guy named Paul MacAdam. I got a D in the class, and I only got the D because I wrote a paper about Toni Morrison’s The Bluest Eye over the summer. I was a crap student: I didn’t read; I didn’t participate; I didn’t turn in papers, or when I did, it was embarrassingly obvious I hadn’t read the books. I also skipped class a lot. It was in the morning, and I didn’t think very highly of morning classes.
I actually said that to him once. He took me aside after the bell rang one day and said you’ve been missing a lot of class, and I was like, “Yeah, I don’t think too highly of morning classes.” I was a real peach.
But when I did go to class, I was usually the last person to file into the room. One thing I remember about that class: Mr. MacAdam always held the door open for us until the bell rang. We’d walk in, and he’d greet each of us. He always held the door open until the bell started ringing, and I’d come in last, three seconds before the bell rang, staring at my untied sneakers, stinking of cigarette smoke, and he’d say, “Mr. Green, always a pleasure,” and then he and the class would talk about the book. Say it was Slaughterhouse Five. I hadn’t read it, of course, but they would talk about it, and MacAdam would get to talking about war and the nonlinear nature of time and how Vonnegut had stripped down the language to tell the nakedest of truths.
But the discussion was always so interesting—these big, hot, fun ideas seemed to matter so much. So I read the books. I never read them when I was supposed to read them; I’d read them a week later, after I’d already gotten an F on my reaction paper. But I’d read them. In essence, I was reading great books for fun. MacAdam didn’t know it, of course. He probably still doesn’t know it. But it didn’t matter whether I was worthy of his faith; he kept it. He still held the door open every day for me. He still treated me like I was the smartest kid in the class, still took me seriously on those rare occasions when I’d raise my hand, still listened thoughtfully to me when I’d give him my reading of a passage I could comment upon only because he’d just read it out loud. He believed I was real, that I mattered. I wasn’t yet able to understand that he mattered, but he was okay with that. He just kept holding the door open for me.
”—John Green, excerpt from his 2008 speech at the Alan Conference (via speciousstuff)
Holden Caulfield:but anyway, I keep picturing all these little kids playing some game in this big field of rye and all. Thousands of little kids, and nobody's around - nobody big, I mean - except me. And I'm standing on the edge of some crazy cliff. What I have to do, I have to catch everybody if they start to go over the cliff - I mean if they're running and they don't look where they're going I have to come out from somewhere and catch them. That's all I do all day. I'd just be the catcher in the rye and all. I know it's crazy, but that's the only thing I'd really like to be.
Holden Caulfield:so don't even call me, you're a phony
okay whew i am sick of not talking about it just so i could wait to post pictures but dude for like the past two days, i have been cleaning my room.
this is a real big super accomplishment thing for me. never, in my twenty years, have i willingly cleaned my room. but a demon overtook me last night and in a fury, i began cleaning. it’s MOSTLY done right now, with just one spot left (for those who know my room, it’s the massive pile of books behind my door).
i don’t have any ‘before’ pictures so i guess posting pictures of the final product won’t really mean anything to those who haven’t actually seen my room in person, but basically i am huge cluttery pack rat and my room was encrusted with many layers of clothes, bookstore bags, and thrift store bags, and other miscellaneous shit. and now it is clean. and it’s really weird, honestly. but now i am paying attention to how little space i have for books in proportion to how many books i have like DANG i need like two more bookcases in there. it would help if i could get rid of all the fucking manga i have but no one is gonna buy those.
but anyways okay the thing is i am still working hard and I REALLY WANT SOME FUCKING CHOCOLATE CHIP COOKIES but i keep forgetting and by the time i remember, the fucking store is closed so i can’t get the shit to make them dfhkjdfk and i deserve some goddamn cookies for the hard labour i’ve done to peel away the strata of shit in my room
Once and again books might take your manga. They’ll give you half of what they’d sell each one for. They give it to you in store credit so you can get more books. Most of their books are half off the list price if they’re used. You can find some good stuff in there. There’s a new once and again books in the same shopping center as hancock fabrics, LA fitness, and the dollar theater. It’s on the little strip where the bridal store is at the end. There’s also one in the same shopping center as Publix off of Sandy Plains heading toward highway five. The nice thing about the one by the avenue is that there is a goodwill drop off there too, so if there’s a few that Once and again won’t take, you can donate them there.