A couple of days ago, I stopped by my local library to return a copy of The Lovely Bones — a really fine book, which I recommend. Well, when I borrowed it, they didn’t enter that fact in the computer, and they didn’t know I had it out when the time came for me to renew it. Then when I did renew it, they tried to get me to pay a fine for a book I actually returned in 1988. I sh– you not. So when I returned The Bones on Thursday, I thought I ought to get a receipt or something. Just to cover my a–, you know?

When I asked the librarian for something showing I returned it, she looked really sad, a little annoyed. She didn’t make a point of showing it, but I could tell. She showed me on the computer where it was deleted from my account, and said, “is that good enough?” I said, “oh absolutely. Thank you.” I went on my way, thinking it was unfortunate that this person and I weren’t able, with all our mutual communication skills, to understand and trust each other. I didn’t trust her to handle the return, and she didn’t understand that I meant no offense.

The world feels dangerous these days, and who’s fault is that? Not the librarian’s. Not mine. We’ve got spammers and identity thieves, terrorists and rogue presidents, mad cows and infected chickens … And if I’ve started a pestilence of offended librarians, well, God help us all.

I am become Death, destroyer of words.

Worlds!

Same difference.