So I get up to the counter with it. Tower cashiere men are always hot. This one looks like mini Eddie Vedder. Mini as in younger than, as Eddie Vedder is already rather diminutive in stature. But same brooding eyes, same furrowed brow, same cascading curls.
I begin scanning my mental rolodex (which is quite sparse) for things to do and/or not do which could possibly impress him enough to peak his interest. While I'm doing this, he helps me along.
"Have you read the book?"
OMFG. He's read the book? Tell him you've read the book! Tell him how many times you hauled that thing to the library for renewal. Tell him how you special ordered it when you were 8. Remark on how cool the green and red fonts were. Tell him you had the soundtrack. Inform him of the diary you kept entirely devoted to your plans for the sexual conquest of the actor (Noah Hathaway) who portrayed Atreyu. Wait...don't tell him that.
Now picture the scene from A Christmas Story in which Ralph mumbles to Santa Clause that yes, he wants a football for Christmas. Well that's basically how it went down. I then find myself outside, in the cold, clutching my Neverending Story DVD with no hope of every seeing mini Eddie Vedder again.
Why has God forsaken me.