(this is annie)

Earlier this year I came up with a ka-ray-zee money-making scheme. It's pretty simple: I find books in my workplace's giveaway book bin; read them; and then sell them to Myopic Books in Wicker Park. Well, on Sunday I decided to run up to the bookshop to sell two heavy bags of books. I wore my messenger bag over a stretchy polyester button-down shirt. This is important for reasons that will be divulged later. Anyway, I parked ol' Vespy, grabbed the bags, and waddled into Myopic. As usual, the grumpycute man was working; he looks a bit like a pre-beard Rivers Cuomo, and he usually seems mildly sad. Naturally I assume that he must be a tortured, literate soul who would certainly become my best friend if only he were willing to take a chance. I also assume that he thinks I am a giant dummy, because I can never remember when the shop buys books. This time was no exception.

I dropped the sacks of books on the floor as Grumpycute looked at me with terror in his bespectacled eyes. I mean, he usually regards everybody with a certain level of disdain, but this time his face was unmistakably full of horror. I started to make small talk ("Ha ha, how 'bout that Faulkner, eh?"), but Grumpycute just looked as though he'd rather be slathered with creamed corn than be anywhere near me. I decided to leave this strangely unfriendly place, and bent over to pick up the books. Then I realized my horrible, unintentional mistake. The weight of the messenger bag had tugged on my shirt, pulling all but three buttons open. Worse, I was wearing my only clean bra—a sheer number that had never seemed scandalous until the moment my breasts popped out to greet the patrons of Myopic Books. "Ohmygodohmygodohmygod," I said to the reddening Grumpycute. "I'm so sorry. I didn't mean for this to happen. I didn't know. They just kind of got out somehow, it's this shirt, I knew it wasn't trustworthy ohmygodohmygod I didn't mean for you to see my boobs I'll put them away and will come back another time bye."