A Calculus Textbook’s Ruminations on Life in a Bookstore

I've been moved from my proper section, again.

This is getting absurd.

I've been at this sad excuse for a bookstore for ages. (Precisely 36 years, 5 months, 8 days, 12 hours, 34 minutes, and 48, no, make that 50 seconds).

If I have to move again I swear I'll perish.

Oh no. It's a tiny human.

Turn around, no no no do not come here.

Do not, no stop it.

It's touching me. 

I've reached my limit!

I may vomit my pages out, I feel so disgusted. 

Oh, lovely. I've just been ripped. This is the 185th rip now! I'm tired of it.

The grotesque being keeps touching me. Help, I'm being violated.

Oh, thank the author, I'm being put away. In the wrong place (does this look like the mathematics section you imbecile? No, it's the fashion section), but at least I'm not being handled so inappropriately.

Sweet relief, how good it feels. Everything is right in the world again.

I'm not in my proper place, my pages are ripped, but at least I'm not being abused by humans. 

My companions seem to adore them, constantly trying to catch their interests.

I don't see the appeal. I like my place on the shelf. I don't like being disturbed.

Not again, another vile human is coming towards me. If he approaches, I may just throw myself onto his head out of spite. And I'm a heavy book, so it will hurt.