Books for Crackheads.

What's better than doing your human homework on your day off? Rearranging your bookshelf, The Bookshelf Called Expedit. T.O.C.E. has pulled hers away from the wall and is using it as a partition, dividing her Room for Living and Room for Dining (not exactly a room, more like a nook, really). This allow books to poke out on either side of the cubes. This is worsened by the fact that she spent 198 hours of today aranging them in these dummo fake categories:

Books Written By Drunks
(Joyce, Cheever, Hemingway, Carver-- note: drunks rule short fiction)

Books Written by Southerners, Who are Also Probably Drunks
(Faulkner, Wolfe [Thomas], Percy)

Biographies of Drunk Bichettes
(Hellman, Bankhead, Parker, Capote)

The Other One's Obsessions (Books by Weirdos)
(Strindberg, Bataille, Pound)

Books Written by People Born in France
(just guess, stooges)

Surrogate Moms of T.O.C.E.
(Vogel, Welty, Chopin, Cather, Winterson)

Cowboys and Indians
(Shepard, Proulx, Alexie, Peckinpah, Means)

Jews and Catholics
(Francis of Assisi, Greene, Allen [Woody], Kabbalah [the])

Books That Slipped Through the Cracks of her Pissant System
(O'Toole, Atwood, Wolfe [Tom])

Books T.O.C.E. Pretends to Have Read
(Rushdie, Pynchon, Shakespeare, God)

Of course, there are also all these stupid rules as to why Faulkner is Southern before he is a Drunk, but Fitzgerald is a Drunk before he is a Princeton alumn, and why Bataille is a weirdo before he is a Frenchy. I personally feel that the shelf should have nothing on it, because I enjoy crawling in and out of the little empty cubes and pretending I am in a Tokyo hotel room.

PleaseHepMeJeebus.