Or, Where I Got My Taste In Books

Me: Dad, I’m borrowing some of your books.

Dad: No, you’re not.

Me: I’m sorry, I phrased that badly. Daddy, I picked out some books of yours that I want. Can I have them?

Dad: No. … Which ones?

Me: About half of that shelf?

Dad: No! …Which half?

Me: Well, I’ve been jonesing to reread all the old Mercedes Lackey…

Dad: Maybe. You’re not touching my Tamora Pierce.

Me: Fine, I’ll borrow those from Jess.

Dad: Great, she can fight with you to get them back.

Me: No, we’re not related; I’m obligated to return hers.

Dad: Yeah, how does that feel for her? I wouldn’t know.

Me: Dad, you’re not getting your books back.

Dad: We’ll bargain.

Me: Can I take the Patricia C. Wrede? You have the two I didn’t find on PaperBackSwap.

Dad: The other two are in the garage. Not that I’m giving them to you. She’s great.

Me: I agree!

2 thoughts on “Why I Came Home For Thanksgiving

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