I used to love spending a rainy afternoon in the library when I was a little kid, so I gave it a try today. I found the tiny corner reserved for teens, dressed up with a second-hand black sofa and a leopard print beanbag meant to simulate a cool place for kids my age. I checked out the book display and realized that according to the publishing industry and the librarians I was supposed to be either a vampire-wannabe, gay, or suicidal. There was one more option--victim of bullying, which I'm guessing, plot-wise is probably a result of the first two and a leading cause of the last.
I opted for the free bookmark on the coffee table that lured me in with mustachioed rubber ducks and then schooled me on the dewey decimal system on the flip-side. I sunk into the beanbag and turned the book mark from duck to dewey and tried to figure out where I belong if the only thing I can relate to in the YA section is a bookmark.
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