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The man who buys the old/used newspapers in my colony just went away from my doorstep, occasionally looking back to send a glare or spit angrily on the floor. He was also muttering something as he left and I tried not to listen too closely, knowing very well it wasn't very complimentary.
It all started very innocently, let me tell you. He was passing by my house and I remembered my huge stack of magazines that I really needed to sell before heading off to College. I ran to the balcony and beckoned him with a large yell. My dog, Lucky, who had trotted into the balcony after me also began barking loudly which resulted in a shouting match between the both of us.
Me: YOOOHOOOOO! HELLLO, NEWSPAPER MAAAAAN!
Lucky: BARK! BURR! BARK! BURR! RAAAAAAWWR!
Well, I prefer to think of it as a tie. (You would too if you lose to your tiny dog. I mean, how embarrassing is it to lose to fairly small white dog?)
Of course, the man HAD to come then. He couldn't very well ignore the war cries. He turned towards the entrance and I flew towards the door, gasping for breath and clutching my stomach as I opened it.
"You called?" He asked sarcastically.
I straightened myself from the undignified heap and nodded, "Yes. Yes, yes, I did."
I went back inside, and collected a pile and deposited them at his feet. It took me FIFTEEN, yes, you read that right, FIFTEEN trips to place all my magazines in front of him.
"Didn't take you long at all." The old man commented, ergo destroying all my beliefs that old men were like grandfathers, sweet and absent minded. Huh. I really did not like this guy.
So we sat down and calculated the amount and I was a little upset with the price (I had visions of buying another dress with the money) but I consented to his final price and it was all dandy...
...till he began placing the magazines in his cart. Every time he lifted a pile and threw them carelessly on the cart, a part of me cried. I mean, they were MINE! My magazines that I had bought lovingly and treasured till the next issue which would then end in them being shoved to the Store Room but mine nonetheless. I think I had three years worth of magazines; Vogue, Seventeen, People, The Economist, you name it, I subscribed it. I even wanted to subscribe to the Russian Vogue if it weren't for my mother.
"BUT YOU DON'T EVEN SPEAK RUSSIAN!" My mother had croaked hysterically.
"See, that's the thing. If I subscribe to it, I could learn how to speak Russian! Imagine!" I exclaimed excitedly, mentally imagining myself in St.Petersburg, amazing everyone with my fluent Russian language skills.
My mother raised an eyebrow. "How? By reading how to bikini wax?"
Mothers are such spoilsports. No imagination at all.
By the time the man was done, my heart was literally on the floor, trampled and butchered mercilessly. It gave a final weak beat and just...stopped.
That's when I cried out loud. "Wait!"
In less than two seconds flat, I was next to his cart and unloading what he had JUST loaded. One after another, I began pulling out all my magazines from his cart, ignoring his yells and determinedly carrying on with my mission. It took me fifteen minutes to take everything out and when I was done, I carried them to my room and handed him some money. I had wasted his time. "Sorry," I said guiltily.
He gave me a final glare and stalked off, muttering something that sounded suspiciously like, "Idiotic, stupid, flighty, feather-headed moron."
But I could be wrong.
So now I'm sitting in my room, surrounded by a sea of old magazines, blogging, sipping coffee and reading old articles now and then.
And you know what?
I wouldn't do it any other way.
P.S. I found a lovely way I can use my old magazines. More on that later.