Books give you an inaccurate depiction of life. Most adults have learned this long ago, when they discovered that the babysitters clubs they formed with their friends never stick and the dog never speaks no matter how hard they train him. I apparently am not one of them. Yesterday, my car broke down after getting gas on my way to Chicago. In a book, one of two things would have happened: either we would have been wisked away to a fantasy parallel universe in which we would have to save said universe by using normal, everyday skills (tying shoes! driving cars!); or we both would have pushed aside our disappointment with each other to be perfectly charming and witty and turned it into an adorable date regardless. Clearly, since I have no actual life skills (a side effect of spending all my time reading), neither of those things happened. I thought at one point that I was being pulled into an alternate universe, but I was just hungry. Once Max (yes, I did just name my boyfriend after Where The Wild Things Are; what of it?) brought me a bagel I was more solidly in the real world. I’m a grown up so I would love to be able to claim that I know things aren’t the way they are in books in real life; sadly I’m actually a child and I’m still sad that I haven’t yet been asked to save a parallel universe. One day I may grow up. I doubt it.