Answer:
which means two things: I have a lot of books, and not a lot of anything else. So when people come over to my apartment and don’t want to talk to each other, they’re forced to marvel at my bookshelves, which are both my only art and my largest pieces of furniture.
After a couple of glasses of wine, I inevitably begin handing out my books like party favors. I always think I will get them back. But then I never get them back. And if I do, the pages are ripped, the cover clinging by one stitch, or there’s a hard, crusty peak of some unidentifiable food item (I hope) trapped on page 47.
Explanation:
