I went to the bookstore again last night. I always go there on those kind of nights, the ones where I lay and stare at the ceiling, at the walls, at everything, the nights when I can't stand to be alone but can't stand the idea of talking to someone either. Most nights I go to the bookstore.

See, I could talk to my dad. He's always wanting to talk about girls and school and everything. Those conversations usually end in talking about my mom though and it just gets old I guess. He wouldn't understand anyways. I don't think anyone would, because I don't understand either.

It's just…I get in these moods. They're odd, those moments, when I just feel…nothing. I'm not particularly sad; I mean, not in the crying and rainy-day way. I've seen sad people but I'm not sad. Sadness is something that comes and then leaves. It is a feeling that makes happiness better. Sadness is like a bad high; you know it will go away, that you'll come down and, eventually, be ready to try getting high again. I'm not sad.

I'm not lonely. I'm alone, sure, but I'm not lonely. Whenever I'm around people it is no different; the mood is still there. It can be worse, sometimes, when I'm around people. It's hard to know what to do. I'm not good at faking excitement or joy or any expression. My mood is demonstrated plainly on my face and they awkwardly dance around it before hurriedly seeking escape from my downer disease. It's easier to be alone.

I drove to the bookstore, listening to Nirvana. It reminded me of the time when I was sitting in the park and a rough-looking hitchhiker told me I looked like Kurt Cobain. It reminded me of the letter that a girl I liked once wrote me. She said I reminded her of the Cobain too. Then she went on to tell me why we couldn't date. Lots of people have said that to me and I guess that's part of the reason I like Nirvana so much. I've always felt like he and I could've been friends but probably not. I'm not good at making friends.

When I got there, the bookstore, I clumsily strolled through the movie section. I hate watching movies, especially the types of movies that are out on rental shelves. But it was all just to kill time anyways.

Everyone always talks about how your teenage years are your best years, that every adolescent moment should be spent in youthful and energetic bliss. They say you should make a lot of memories and spend a lot of time with kids your age. They say you shouldn't kill time. I think those people have forgotten just how long adolescence lasts.

I worked my way through the movies pretty quickly, not really looking at titles or covers or anything. Next to the movies was the music and novelties section. I glanced through the posters for a while and realized that you could really learn a lot about someone by which posters they lingered at and which they quickly flipped.

There would be the virile characters, staring dumbly at the nude posters. I guess perverts too. There would be the obnoxious girls whose eyes glisten for too long on boy band members in ridiculous outfits standing in front of ridiculous backgrounds. There's the people who dig the music posters, their personality depending on the band they're staring at. There's the people who stare at the psychedelic posters and the ones who stare at the joke posters. You could tell a lot about someone by how long they stared at certain posters.

This realization made me a little paranoid. I got nervous thinking about someone judging me as I spent too much time staring at Arctic Monkey posters and psychedelic mushroom pictures. I walked to the book section.

A week or two before I'd seen a beautiful girl working there, in the book section. I guess, subconsciously, I always sort of hope that she will be there again when I look around. I wouldn't say anything though; I know that. It's sad too. Pretty girls who love books enough to work at a book stores can be hard to find, especially for someone who isn't good at looking. I wouldn't say anything to her though. She wasn't there anyways.

I went straight to the classics section, weaving myself through the maze of pulp fiction trash and self-help monstrosities. I always go straight to the classics section. The girl wasn't in any of the aisles either. I was disappointed at that but I don't know why.

Taking a seat on the floor, I stared at the same shelf of titles that I'd seen a hundred times. Pulling out a collection of Kafka stories, I started thumbing through the book, reading a page here and a page there. I had no intention of buying the book, not that night. I was just killing time.

After Kafka, I looked through the sparse selection of Kerouac. I'd read all the ones there. Kerouac is my favorite. On top of one of the books there was a tag to a necklace. It was the type of necklace tag I'd seen in the novelty section. Someone had taken a seat back there and removed the tag so they could steal the cheap necklace. I learned about such tricks working at a shoe store. Standing up, I saw two or three different empty boxes and loose tags, the receipts of five-finger discounts.

I guess the only thing classics sections are good for these days are seeking cover so you can steal action figures and hemp jewelry. It bothered me a little. Not that people stole, I could care less about morals and shoplifting. What bothered me was the fact that classics were so overlooked even the staff didn't notice the small pile of shoplifting proof. What bothered me was that the pretty girl I'd seen working in the book section didn't sneak peeks at the classics like I'd imagined her doing during her breaks. What bothered me was the proof that she probably wasn't what I thought she was. I wouldn't have talked to her anyways.

With an hour killed I walked out of the store and drove back up the hill to my dad's house. I listened to Nirvana without actually listening. I was still in that mood. As I write this I'm still in that mood. I think I'm going to go to the bookstore.