Thursday, August 6, 2009

When I want to kill children, I write blogs.

Right now, there are two little girls in here that are driving me crazy. Both have nothing better to do with their time than to ask me question after question, then when I tell them I need to work, they argue with each other until they resort to violence, then I tell them to stop, and the questions start again.

"What does this cart do?"

"Can I sign up for Yahoo?"

"Can I pet your puppies?" Stuffed animals.

"Can we shelve books?" Dear God, no.

"Can I buy books?" Not here.

"Can I check them out?" Sure.

"What if I have a fine on my card?" Then no.

"What if I pay the fine." Yes.

"What if my mom comes in and pays the fine tomorrow?" Then tomorrow, you can check out books.

"Can I check them out today?" If you pay the fine.

"Can I cut out leaves?" No. We're closing and I would have to drag out the paper and put it away in ten minutes. And then clean up the mess you will have made. You loud, loud, children.

"Can I stay here until 8:30?" No, because the doors will be locked, and I will not be here. The lights will be off and the security system will be armed. So if you're in here, it will only be until the police come and arrest you, then me, because I endangered you by locking you by yourself in the library after hours without the consent of your parent or guardian, who may or may not be in jail right now. Leading you to be here with me at 7:30 in the evening.

"Can I play with the toys?" Yes, be my guest.

"Can I take them home?" No.

"What if someone breaks them?" Then they will be broken.

"Who's that for?" Someone who called in and asked for it.

"Does YouTube work?" Ask YouTube. They'll be happy if it does, angry if it doesn't, because it's costing them money to fix it.

"How old are you?" Much older than you.

This will go on until I lock the doors and send them home. My private, endless hell. Wish me luck.

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