I broke my bed this week. STRICTLY speaking, this is not a books-related post, but I do almost all my reading in my bed, so tangentially it totally is.
This is how not to read in your bed. These people don't even have their backs to each other for warmth and alienation. Can they even read? Amateurs.
I don't really know how it happened, because I am not an extraordinarily heavy person, and even though the bed was previously in my grandparents' house where many children probably jumped on it or something, and the bed didn't break on the side I use, my sense is REALLY?
But actually, I do know why it happened. In college, I had a roommate (shared common room, separate bedrooms) named Tina, and she was a fan of the sextatorial arts. Every night, I would wake up to the sound of Tina screaming her little head off and also other noises that were very suspect and made me wonder if possibly she was demolishing things in her room with her vagina. Later, she would scream really charming, tender things at her boyfriend like "EW BABY IT IS RUNNING DOWN YOUR LEG" and I would hear the bathroom door slam and make a mental note to burn everything I owned that was in the bathroom and eventually I would cry myself back to sleep, because that's the kind of phase I was going through at the time. Sorry, college buddies!
Anyway, one day, I came home to find Tina and a handyman from the dorm looking at the broken, sad remains of what had been her bed. The handyman was in awe. "What happened?" he asked. And Tina said "I don't know", and in that moment, as I stood there watching them and holding my little tongue, my intense schadenfrorgasm birthed into the world the inevitability that someday my own bed would break.
And now it has. Where, oh where, will I read my books now? Every other place in the house is the worst place in the house, so long as I am in it trying to read. I will have no choice but to deploy my carpentry skills in service of fixing my stupid bed and also, can someone please let me know how to countersink a screw?