i dont want to live til im 30

today, im sick.

tomorrow, im sick.

the next day? sick

yesterday? i was sick.

sick.

boohoo.

im sick.

dont come near me.

marinating in the shit

to gain an unique flavor profile,

i dont want to be touched.

or loved.

or have a conversation.

or babies.

i want to be like that

dead kitten, skull

crushed 

and 

sizzling

in the middle of 

the street

covered in 

a buzz of 

flies,

lapping up whatever

nutrition they can

from

the rotting body.

ew.

im sick.

but you're sick too.

don't you realize it?

it's what happened after

you and i were born.

but we can never be sick 

together.

so we lie in cigarette butts,

dirty dishes,

glass,

used needles,

fingerprints,

discarded tumors,

unspoken words,

dishonesty,

and darkness.

with blank minds,

and our backs turned;

two sets of eyes 

facing opposite walls.

im sick.

you're sick.
the times are sick.

it's hard to move,

but impossible to

fall asleep.

the moon is not 

our mother,

neither is the sun.

the shit is starting 

to pile up,

and you're afraid 

we will drown;

im afraid we might

learn how to swim
and save ourselves.

sick 

sick 

sick

so fucking sick.

sick of you.

sick of me.

sick from life.

i run my nails

down resurrected

veins and feel

excited but,

even more alone,

because there is 

no cure.

there are only decisions

and circumstances

that we mix 

together

in a blender,

and call existence.

i laugh,

and 

you say,

"it's not funny."

even though,

being alive totally is

in that sadistic kind

of way.

sick.
the future's sick.

im sick.

you're gone.

oh well.

it was expected.

the cross 

i will be crucified

on will not be made

of used works, dried blood,

and hiv.

no, my cross will

be made by illuminated letters

from the signs of fast food chains,

a.a./n.a. meetings,

boredom,

the low fuel light on my dashboard,

and name brand plastic shopping bags

filled with useless shit that means 

something to someone

who isn't me.

everything held together

with masking tape, saliva,

and pieces of my brain.

why eat healthy

when the end is

always so

fucking 

predictable?

reviews from a homeless junkie part 2:

Review of hanging out with other people:

Sucks. Straight up. It always starts out with the promise of being okay, and maybe, even a fun time, but eventually takes a turn for the worse. This turning point usually happens when other people start talking about their lives. You know, budgeting, relationship problems, parents, what to wear, the ethics of organic lettuce vs regular lettuce, what they hate about their new job, meditation, and the benefits of positive thinking. At this point, I need to be on a substance. At this point, I nod, smile, and agree while using the phrases, “Oh,” “Wow,” “That’s crazy,” “Yeah,” “Totally understand,” “I see where you’re coming from,” and “Interesting,” to seem like I care even though I’m not paying attention. A concerned expression in combination with the phrases above is even more convincing that I am invested in their bullshit. All this work to avoid confrontation is exhausting. And as they talk, using the phrase, “Yeah, I’m going to be roughing it over the next two months on two grand,” I compare their dreams and troubles to my own, and realize they are pussies I will never be able to relate to, and want to curb stop their skulls with my boot. I realize I wish I had xanax. I realize this world is stupid, life is pointless, and I wish I could just be a basic bitch. I realize they’ve never pawned or sold something that they loved with sentimental value. I realize they’ve never pawned or sold something that someone else loved with sentimental value. I realize it’s 12:30, I have a warrant, my car has one headlight, I’m a little drunk, and have a 15 min drive to the closest parking lot I can sleep in for the night. Oh yeah, and waking up with a hangover from hanging out with other people (not alcohol) is the fucking worst. Realizing that yes, last night did actually fucking happen. Which is why I have stopped trying and keep interactions to a minimum. Because if I didn’t I would totally have killed myself by now, which makes me think maybe I should. Shit, who knows?

1 out of 5 stars.

Review of walmart cashier in lane 17 on Sunday June 26,2016 at 9:03 pm:

Cool. Not overly friendly, and didn’t say much which I appreciated. Was patient when I was counting my change out for my purchase. And immediately reached for the hand sanitizer after our transaction and interaction was complete cause I am a dirty sweaty smelly bitch at the moment—smart move. The only negative was him saying, “Have a nice night.” I certainly cannot meet those lofty expectations, sir; I’m sorry.

 3.5 out of 5 stars

Review of the tan teenage girl in the coral pink halter top and dark blue skinny jeans with a fountain drink in one hand, and an iphone in the other walking down the middle of the university mall:

You probably didn’t notice that I thought about how to successfully rob you without getting caught, before realizing you probably don’t even carry cash, just cards. You’re lame.

1.5 out of 5 stars.

Review of the university mall security guard:

You’re cool as fuck for not kicking me out, but I just really wish you wouldn’t say shit like, “Welp, I guess I’ll be seeing you here all day again tomorrow.” Because, yeah you probably will unless you’re off or something, which makes our next interaction even more fucking awkward.

4 out of 5 stars.

Review of bon ton perfume counter workers:

Do you seriously have to check everyone’s bag or purse when they set off the military grade shoplifting alarms? Why does it matter to you ladies if someone is shoplifting? You’re still getting paid, it’s not hurting the bottom line, and they probably are shoplifting for a reason. But even if they weren’t who cares? Well except you. Never seen you catch anyone either, so that shows how good of a job you’re doing. You all suck. Fucking hate you.

0 out of 5 stars

reviews from a homeless junkie part 1: sex, heroin, and chef boyardee

Review of sex:

Overrated.

.5 out of 5 stars.

Review of heroin:

Literally the best. The FUCKING BEST!!! It will change your life forever. Take you to places you’ve never been before with people you would never speak to, and doing things you could’ve never possibly imagined. Nothing beats shooting up in a public gas station restroom or in a bathroom at your aunt’s house during a family function. Or scoring in a parking lot after waiting hours and hours for that call, and puking all over yourself on the drive up. Oh, the memories. A lot of people give it a bad rap, but all the problems I’ve ever encountered in my own experience are due to a lack of heroin, never because I have too much of it. Sure you could OD, but I mean who cares? I certainly don’t! I see it as an added bonus, because who wants to live until they’re 50? Not me!  And if you ever even consider hitting me with narcan, I will stab one of your eyes out to thank you. Anyway, the other benefits? It teaches you how to be resourceful. How to use a syringe, and find a vein better than a doctor. How to go without food and shitting for days at a time. How to burn yourself with a cigarette when you’re on the nod. How to become a better liar, which is an important quality in today’s society. And, in general, what is really truly important in life. If you have the means, I recommend you go out and get some heroin (junk, dope, down, horse, tickets, H, cheeseburgers, brown, tar, scag, blows, dark) now. Drop whatever the fuck you’re doing—I don’t care if you’re going on a run to stay fit, or tending your garden, or watching your football team lose game after game, or doing yoga, it doesn’t matter. Drop whatever the fuck you’re doing and go out and get it now!

99999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999⁹ out of 5 stars.

Review of chef boyardee beef ravioli:

Every time I buy this 80 cent gem, I imagined a MC coming out with a can to fog machines, bright lazer lights, and pyrotechnics at a rap concert, then screaming into the microphone, “YYYYYOOOOOOOOOOOOO THE CHEF IS IN DA MOTHERFUCKING BUILDING!!!!”( or in my case my car), and the crowd going berserk like a bunch of caged reptiles on molly in the midst of a twenty four hour orgy. Ha ha. Okay, but always choose the ravioli over any other of the chef’s products, and never fuck with spaghetti-o’s—that’s pussy shit. Why? Chef’s ravioli’s are 15oz, compared to the 14.5 oz you get with the lasagna, spaghetti, and/or mac and cheese; I cannot speak for the beefaroni since they do not carry it at my local grocery connection. Also the ravioli has meat in the sauce as well as in the pasta, which I assume is a bit more nutritious and satiating. The last reason is the can is mostly stuffed with raviolis and the sauce is not used as a filler cough cough spaghetti-o’s with meatballs. They’re just great, and no stove, fire, or kitchen appliance is required, except for a fork or a spoon, but I guess you could just eat with your hands if you have to. The perfect meal for the broke hungry homeless person on the go.

4.5 out of 5 stars.

sucked into a black hole on date night

when you slap my ass

in public i think:

SEXUAL HARRASSMENT

in bold black capital letters.

when you take me to the

new big summer blockbuster in theaters,

and make out with me in the dark,

i hope i have bad breath.

i hope you notice.

i hope my bad breath infects your good breath

because i haven't brushed my teeth in three weeks
and contracted gingivitis

exactly for this very special occasion.

when you tell me,

"i love you,"

i start to peel

strips of skin

off my body

until there

is nothing left

but a smaller skeleton

resting inside a larger one;
you don't even notice.
instead, you just talk about how
bad you want me.

when you get hard

i pretend i'm high on

heroin and crack

so i can get wet

to get through this.

when you're naked

and ask me to strip,

i plan to steal 

your wallet,

and shitty family sedan,

then drive off a cliff 

in the country.

when you're inside me

sweating and moaning,

i want to abort

your cells from my body
in a bloody nebula that
swirls around the water
of the toilet,
and flush
because i have
the ability to both
create and destroy.
and sometimes
creation and destruction
are synonymous.

when you come,
i realize i never
have fun when i'm around
other people.
i realize i am only squirming

because i have to pee

and am in the mood for pizza/chicken wings,
which you mistake for an orgasm.

when you are asleep,
i tell you i'm pregnant,
and ask you to marry me
because i will only marry
someone i don't love
and never will.

deal with it.

How I Check Someone Out

With a razorblade.

i've never met a heroin addict in barnes and noble part 2: "as a sober member of society i am crawling along trying to get somewhere that i really don't care for, but as a junkie I had a purpose"

I've never met a heroin addict in barnes and noble, and today will be no different.

I slake my dehydrated bones at the faucet of the bathroom upstairs, behind the westerns/detective section.

The water fountain is out of order, along with the escalator that transports you back downstairs, but at least the air conditioning works, and no one has kicked me out of the store for reading and completing five books there in the past five days without any intention to buy anything #adulting.

Emerging from the bathroom, my feet lead me through the fiction section where I stalk my sixth victim. There is a promotional display at the end of one of the aisle's for bobby flay's barbecuing addiction. It is a memoir about bobby flay's crippling barbecuing addiction. How, at first, it was purely innocent, just enjoying some hot dogs and cheeseburgers at his adolescent daughter's friend's parents' backyard/swimming pool, but quickly spiraled out of control with him losing his job, his wife, his fortune, custody of his daughter, overdosing on some combination of burnt ends, pulled pork, and potato chips 11 times, and, finally, sucking 50 year old dick for a intravenous injection of BBQ sauce, and a rib. Eventually, he is able to stay out of jail and cure his addiction by becoming a jehovah's witness, and reclaim some of his dignity through the teachings of christ.

Instead, I pick up another book and sit down in the big beige cloth chair like I have everyday for the past six days.

Across from me is a girl with red frizzy hair who is passed out with her head in her knees with a partially opened copy of Death of a Salesman.

Must be interesting!

On my left is a young man with a tribal tattoo on his right calf who is researching how to start up and run a small business for dummies.

I wonder if he is insulted by being called a dummy by the yellow and black cover of the book.

Like pissed.

Like gets up, rips the cover/every page out of the book to shreds that falls like snow onto his feet, and looks around at all of us with bulging bloodshot fighting bull eyes, saying, "Fuck that bitch. Totally deserved it. I ain't no dummy!" before abruptly leaving.

Or maybe he is an employee of that company sent to figure out who is or isn't a dummy in barnes and noble, then kidnap, tag, and send everyone he deems are dummies to a concentration camp for dummies..

Shit. Who knows?

I certainly don't, but now with each passing second I am more convinced I am a dummy. That the word, humanity, is just a synonym for dummies.

After twenty minutes of uninterrupted silence, except for  the two gentlemen clangin and bangin away at the faulty escalators, the red haired girl wakes up, and the young man that may or may not be a dummy takes a break from his studies.

He looks at her before saying, "Wow, like you were really out of it. I thought about putting a blanket on you or something. Long night?"

He has the grin of a sociopath marking his next victim.

She laughs before readjusting her posture.

"Oh thanks for your concern. Yeah, I work at night in this Bosnian restaurant, and didn't get out until 3 in the morning," she pauses and gnaws on her bottom lip a little, "I really don't go out at night around town that much. Most of the bars are just like crowded with old people or college kids. The only one I go to is this like higher class dive bar that has karaoke from 10-1 every night. I'd much rather go to the beach or something, especially now since I have some free time because I just graduated college."

"Oh cool. Yeah, I like the outdoors. What do you do at the beach?"

I think about asking them for a bundle of junk, and taking both their wallets.

"I go kite surfing. I just started learning it from this guy named Zebulon who lives in St. Albans. It's really fun, but dangerous I guess if you don't know what you're doing."

I think about putting them both in a headlock, then say, "You both smell bad, but I smell worse, which means that I'm the master. Now come my children there is work to be done."

"Wow, that sounds like really fun. What's that guy's name? But yeah I want to learn maybe we can go sometime. Do you have a facebook?"

I think about prying one of my eyes out with a dirty fingernail, turn to each of them, say, "Ta da!" and showcase the white ball with its severed nerve still moist in the palm of my hand. Then explain how that was the trick, as I hold them down and baptize each of them on the forehead with the blood dripping from my empty eye socket. Making the sign of the cross in the blood with my thumb.

I am the master. I am the magician. I am the holy father.

Fuck you.

Embrace me sons and daughters, and I will deliver you to a paradise of bad feelings and excruciating anxieties.

Praise be to me motherfucker.

Now get on your knees, suck my dick, and pray.

(Actually, on second thought, I don't want my dick sucked, and never want to have sexual contact with anyone ever again. Just buy me a soda and two slices of pizza instead cause shit's expensive and I'm broke as fuck.)

"Uhhhhh...yeah I do."

The man who is certainly a dummy quickly looks down at his feet, then back at her, scratching the stubble on his chin.

"I mean like do you want to add me on facebook? If not, it's cool. I get the whole stranger danger."

The red haired girl laughs. They exchange names. They send friend requests. They are now friends on facebook, but not in real life. They are both sitting at barnes and noble not reading books. They talk. She talks about cheap places to eat, where the cheapest meal is $10. More kite surfing. More Zebulon. She mentions how downtown is the meeting spot for all her friends. He nods. The muscles in his face twitch as he feigns interest. He mentions how he was in the military. She likes organic vegetables and community oriented production and stability. His favorite hamburger is from mcdonald's but he keeps this to himself. She smiles. He smiles. They talk. She talks. He talks. People are trying to read. The earth is still a speck of dust in a vacuum that will be emptied into a wet viscous trash can any day now. Any day, we will be surrounded by more garbage than we already are before suffocating to death. And the word, dummies, is a synonym for humanity. And the definition for humanity is dumb motherfuckers.

Getting up to leave, I turn to the red haired girl.

"Just to let you know, he wants to fuck you, and I'm pretty sure you two will never be friends. He will be gone in the morning. Actually, it might be you who's gone. I don't know, (I can't predict the future) but there will be a locked door involved. You have to make a choice, and doing nothing is also a choice. But yeah, it's all bullshit. Or drug shit. Or piss. Or vomit.  Or period blood. Or dick sweat. Or violent orgasms. Or awkward good night kisses. Or being alone at night even though you're with another person, and that person may or may not be inside you. Probably it's all the above, so just slay the small talk, go for the jugular, and get straight to the point. Do you want to fuck him or not? I don't care, either way we will always be prostitutes. But I'm leaving cause I can't stand this shit anymore. You're both assholes, but I will always be the king asshole. I will always be the king. Fuck off."

I am a liar with plastic bones that melt under a giant magnifying glass being held up to the sun by the what ifs of today. My body spreads out across the pavement like an oil slick spreads across the ocean. Killing every thing that it touches. Always killing everything it touches.

Short Play

In a mall at noon. The sun is coming through the sky light, and a man in a blue dress shirt and tie is walking next to the janitor. The man in the blue dress shirt and tie points up at the sky light, and grins. The janitor stops, frowns, and writes something in a notepad with blue ink, before they both walk off. Mechanical children's laughter can be heard coming from a roller coaster simulation ride. A man wearing a red baseball hat walks past the roller coaster simulation ride with a toddler in a plaid navy blue and white button down shirt. The toddler takes off and sits in the seat of the roller coaster simulation.

MAN IN RED BASEBALL HAT: Yo, we gotta go!

The toddler laughs and screams as he pretends he is going down a huge hill.

MAN IN RED BASEBALL HAT: I ain't playin! Ya wit me, not yo mom remember?

The toddler puts his arms up towards the ceiling and sways back and forth.

MAN IN RED BASEBALL HAT: Not goin to tell ya again, LET'S GO!

The toddler stares into the screen and keeps laughing.

MAN IN RED BASEBALL HAT: Aight. That's how ya want to do it little homie.

The man in the red baseball hat shrugs his shoulders, then grabs the child's forearm, yanks him out of the roller coaster simulation, and starts walking dragging the toddler behind him. The toddler looks back.

TODDLER: Noooooo!

The man in the red baseball hat leans down closer to the toddler while still walking.

MAN IN RED BASEBALL HAT: Na I ain't puttin up wit this shit. Ya don't know who ya fuckin wit. I'm the king! Not ya! Don't let no kids run me.

The man in the red baseball hat walks the toddler out of the mall's front entrance. Mechanical children's laughter can be heard coming from the empty roller coaster simulation ride.

job interview #2

I Will Hammer Nails Through Your Feet Into The Ground, Bind Your Arms, And Tie A Ligature Around Your Neck From The Taught Rope Dangling Above So When You Decide To Rest It Will Be Permanent.

i've never met a heroin addict in barnes and noble part 3: "i only survive because i exist."

Read a review of the holy bible: king james version, on my laptop in the mall next to an old lady with a red aluminum cane, a soft drink in a foam cup from ihop, and a bright pink iphone, who was sleeping.

The review said, "hated it."

Which made me feel a little bit better about the state of the world for a couple of seconds, before i went to mcdonald's, and got a dollar cheeseburger.

ive never met a heroin addict in barnes and noble (Part 1: I kind of hate wal-mart, but at least they let you sleep in their parking lots overnight for free)

The orange light starts coming through the windows at 5:30 am, which is when I cover my eyes, and turn over onto my right side away from the driver's window. In those few moments of semi-consciousness, I think in pictures: a hamburger, chef boyardee beefaroni, a rope, pinched carotid arteries, natty daddys, broke in 5 days, budgeting, speed, xanax, gas, haven't showered in a week, the beach, unemployed, applications, left leg's asleep, cops, warrants, piss slamming against asphalt, brown teeth, american club cigarettes, spoons, needles, teddy bears, nembutal, stage 3 ovarian cancer, sand in my shoes, missed texts from last night, Eleven Kinds of Loneliness, knives, and death, and death, and death. And death. AND DEATH!

I close my eyes, and then my eyes open.

It's 8:30 am. The wal-mart parking lot has filled in like ink between the lines of a children's coloring book in progress. I reach down the left hand side of the seat, pull the lever, and lean forward, which returns my seat back to its normal upright position. The air is heavy and humid even with the windows down because the sun has wrung every last drop of coolness out of the translucent body with its clammy hands. I roll a cig, light a match, and let the tobacco add another flavor note to my rotten palate. A little blonde haired girl in hot pink shorts and a tangerine tank top peeks at me through short skinny fingers with swimming pool eyes, then hides behind her father's khaki shorts as they walk into the mouth of the store. I throw the rest of my cig out the window, point at my face in the rearview mirror with a fingergun, and pull the trigger. 

In the store, my tendons in my legs feel like ratty elastic straps ready to snap. This is the after-effect of sleeping in the front seat of a compact car for the past couple of weeks and being 6'2". I walk through the aisles and pick up a can of chef boyardee beef ravioli, holding it in my hand like a zookeeper holding the last panda bear cub on earth.

I never knew wal-mart had a radio station with a morning show, but they do, and we, customers, employees, drifters, children, are forced to listen to it. The two radio hosts, a southern man trying to cover up his accent and the typical token black man, assault each other with trivia questions about different products, Taylor Swift, and what sushi is wrapped with (surprise! they don't know.) After a discussion on why they dislike sushi, it's time for shout outs to random employees at wal-marts all across the country, possibly the world—I'm unsure if wal-mart has expanded and started the process of conquering other nation's population with the promise of low low prices. The shout outs all consist of saying the name of the person, their position in the anatomy of wal-mart, the store they are working at, reason for the shout out, and always end with the phrase, "keep on working hard," implanting it in everyone's brain so we all keep working hard at whatever we do so we can continue to shop at wal-mart for the rest of our lives.

This one goes out to Jim, the meat cutter, at supercenter 361 in jackson, mississippi, who just became a grandfather today. Congrats Jim, keep on working hard.

I go up to the register where a balding man with a broken ring of slick dark grey hair circles around the sides and back of his head. He has a name tag stapled on his blue polo shirt with a holographic purple smiley face sticker on it. His name is Red. Red smiles showing off his broken bottom teeth before saying, "Heya, howz it goin?" with a soft muffled voice. And Red looks so fucking beautiful.

Here's a shout out to Amelia, the cashier, at supercenter 147 in pittston, pennsylvania, whose 31st birthday was 2 days ago. Happy birthday Amelia! Keep on working hard.

"Not bad...how about you?"

His smiles grows wider exposing more bits of teeth.

"Ga-reat. Like really good. Yeah...really good. Hehe. Ga-reat."

Red grabs the can squishing the picture of chef boyardee with his thumb, and runs the can over the scanner.

beep.

"That's 98 cents, my man," he says.

I giggle and dig through my left jean pocket and hand him a dollar bill, while subtracting .98 from 62.37 in my head.

"Out of a hundo," he laughs at his own joke before thinking about it more seriously, "Like wouldn't it be ga-reat if ya had that. Like you'd be doin all right. Nawt sayin ya are nawt alright, but, like you'd be doin even better."

The register clicks open.

Shout out to Murray from the electronics department at store 233 in meridian, id, who is celebrating his seventh anniversary on the wal-mart team. Good job Murray, keep on working hard.

"Yeah, I'd be doin great. I wish I had that. Would totally give you some of that, and get you your favorite soda, or snack or whatever. But sadly I don't, sorry my friend."

Red slides two pennies out of the till with his index finger and into his palm then turns back to me.

"Heya it'z okay. It'z okay. You're really cool fa offering that to me. Hehe. Would totally take ya up on that offer if ya had it," he says while handing me my change, then points at the dunkin donuts located behind him. "But yeah, don't go to that place, theya just take ya change and don't give it back."

"Well fuck them. I need my change!"

He cackles like a little kid who just said his first dirty word on purpose.

"Yeah, fuck them. Fuckin theives. Would ya like a bag?" 

"Na, I'm good, but thanks though."

We looked at each other like two friends that are unsure if they will ever see each other again and don't know whether to shake hands or hug. I wonder if he will get a wal-mart shout out, probably not, but I would rather see Red get a raise instead.

Then in an overtly corporate training video voice says, "You are very welcome sir. Have a wonderful day. And thank you for shopping at wal-mart," before he switched back into his relaxed regular tone, "Haha. but yeah take er eazy, and yeah fuck them. And yeah if ya do get that c-note, don't fahget about me, jus come back here and get me a mountain dew and um some gummy bears and doritos, that'd be chill."

"Will do my man. You too. Peace."

We bump fists as I pick up my can of chef boyardee, and exit the store.

When I get outside an old man with a pot belly in a neon green shirt, glasses, khaki shorts, and white shin length socks asks me if I want to make a donation towards alzheimers research.

I think about my Nana, who I haven't seen in over a year, and doesn't remember me anymore. I think about how the last time I saw her I was getting a hundred off my uncle for heroin, but saying I needed that to pay the electric bill that's past due, and would pay him back in a few days; I never did. I think about how she used to feed me a big bowl of rice crispies with milk after school when I was a kid, while watching cnn on the kitchen tv. I think about how she used to make christmas dinner from scratch: ham, kielbasa, roast beef, green beans, potatoes, carrots, gravy, dinner rolls, tiramisu, chocolate pie, lemon pie. I think about how my mom, uncle, and aunt take turns making her dinners, while she is taken care of by a nurse. I think about how she has lost most of her memories.

"Sorry, I would, but I'm kind of broke, and need the rest of my money. Sorry."

"It's okay."

He approaches someone else with the same enthusiastic vigor, unfazed.

"Hi, would you like too..."

I think about scoring, and shooting up. I think about the blood rushing into the needle.  I think about never waking up. I think about killing myself. I think about how my life feels like it started in media res, even though it didn’t; there was clearly a beginning, a middle, and, eventually there will be an end. I think about Red. I think about gummy bears and mountain dew. I think about keep on working hard. I think fuck them, fuck all of them.

And then I think about death, and death, and death. And death. AND DEATH!

I get in my car, drop the can of chef boyardee ravioli on the passenger seat, and drive to barnes and noble.