I just returned from a disastrous date. We met at the
library. She wanted to talk about books. I wanted to
talk about her breasts. My mind drooled all over
I no longer have any options left. I've got to read
people better. Minds are like closed books or dirty
windows. They come in different sizes and shapes.
Take mine for example. When I look inside, I see a
seedy parking lot the size of Rhode Island or an
ancient library in a buried city of pornographic
images covered by the ash of my lust. The more I look
the more it seems filled with irrelevant mental cargo
boxes drowning in some kind of marshmallow fluff.
What a mess. Things are impossible to retrieve.
I made up an imaginary friend. A sort of sexy mental
librarian. She's an idealistic graduate student. God
only knows what kind. It's certainly not Library
Science or Education. I meet with her when I'm bored,
at a loss for words. She's funny. Whatever she says
usually means something else. She's inclined to
criticize, be judgmental and nag. The kind of
qualities as unpalatable as raw goat milk in Irish
She told me I needed to date more. What she really
meant was everything was beginning to look to me like
a woman's thigh. She told me she was thinking of
putting on her mental jogging shorts and tracking
some trends. What she really meant was my mind was my
most undeveloped feature. I should exercise it more.
She told me I was not long winded enough. What she
really meant was my attention span was like a rubber
band perennially snapping back to the themes of sex,
excuses and money. When I said I think about what I
don't have a lot of, she told me it was her job to do
the thinking for us both. I guess I've got a wife and
didn't know it. Which means I don't need a therapist
Like Dylan Thomas, Scott Malby believes that an empty
library is a terrible bar to great spirits.