(I’m working the register at the local library. We have a program where we help aspiring writers get their names out there by printing previews of the first few chapters of their book for local review before they send it to major publishers. One of said aspiring writers is talking with some people about his book, a long and detailed story with a vampire and werewolf as dual protagonists. Comparisons with Twilight have been drawn by several people, and he calmly explains the (myriad) differences, usually ending with a blunt jab about Twilight being “ploddingly written garbage.”)

Writer: “I’ve spent a lot of time building up this world with a bunch of traditional mythos. There aren’t just vampires and werewolves, but many other mythological creatures from all over the world.”

(Another customer comes up and begins speaking to him with a paperback preview of the first few chapters.)

Customer: “Oh, my god, this book is such a Twilight rip-off, and it’s such a bad rip-off, too! And your character is all wrong. He’s supposed to be broody and dark and hate what he is and that he can’t control it. Yours loves being a vampire and drinks blood like a drunk drinks wine!”

Writer: “You know, there are more types of vampires than just the one from Twilight. And quite honestly, Twilight—”

Customer: “Is the best thing ever! Honestly, the reason I’ve never heard of vampires before Twilight is because the old ones are all STUPID!”

(The woman throws the paperback on the ground and stomps off, the writer’s face is deadpan but I can see his eyes glaring a hole into the woman’s head. He looks to the guy he was speaking to and gives an exasperated sigh.)

Writer: “And that’s why I want people to help me get my book published.”

(The customer agrees with him and buys the preview the woman just threw down, he came back a few weeks later to return it, extremely satisfied and waiting on the final product.)

(My father is in the lobby area at the library when he passes gas very loudly.)

Nearby Five-Year-Old Boy: *sitting next to his father* “Daddy! That man sounds just like you!”

(It’s a slow day, so my co-worker and I are making small talk. The conversation turns to awards shows and the expensive dresses celebrities wear to them.)

Me: “You know, just once I’d like to see an actress wear a department-store dress to the Oscars or something. Not a designer dress that costs enough to feed a small country for a year.”

Coworker: “You know, I could see [Decidedly Male Actor] doing that.”

Me: “…You could see [Decidedly Male Actor] wearing a dress to the Oscars?”

Coworker: “Well, I meant like a Wal-mart suit, but actually, I could see him in a dress…”

(Because their library is being refurbished, our local school brings their classes in to take books out every week. This week one of the classes comes in with a teacher I haven’t seen before…)

Teacher: *approaching the desk* “Who wrote ‘The Diary of Anne Frank’?”

Me: “…”

(I am 11 and have a notoriously short attention span. I often lose interest in lessons within 15 minutes. The exception for me is books. I can read books for hours on end without fail. Most of my teachers put up with me to some extent but my English teacher always seemed to have a problem with me. Because my personality made it difficult to make friends I spent most of my time in the library reading. One day my English teacher comes into the library during lunch and sees me reading.)

Teacher: “[My Name], what are you doing here? You shouldn’t be here.”

Me: “Umm… I’m reading. Why?”

Teacher: “Don’t be silly. You don’t have the patience for books. You’re clearly up to no good.”

Me: “Actually, I love books. This one is my favorite. I’ve read it, like, eight times and it’s different every time.”

Teacher: “Don’t lie to me. You clearly stole that book from some other student and are about to cause trouble.”

(She then walks up to me and snatches my book from my hands.)

Teacher: “I’m taking this to my office. You can tell whoever you stole it from that I have it. Let this be a lesson that you shouldn’t disrespect books.”

(No matter how much I argued she didn’t give it back. Eventually I had to go to lessons. I went home and cried and my mother called the teacher to complain. The teacher refused to accept that I owned the book. It wasn’t until my mother submitted a formal complaint to the head teacher that I got it back, only to find she had kept it in her office and used it as a coaster. By the time I got it back it had several tea stains and she had even spilled some onto the pages. Even 12 years later I can’t work out how I was the one disrespecting books.)