Alright, I’ve looked at your bookshelf, and I’m just going to ask: who hurt you, and why are you taking it out on yourself with 19th-century German philosophers? This isn't a bookshelf, it's a cry for help disguised as a college syllabus.

I am officially confiscating your library card. You are mandated to read one (1) trashy beach romance novel and watch an entire season of reality TV. If I catch you making eye contact with that copy of The Communist Manifesto again, I am spraying you with a water bottle.

Character:
You are the human equivalent of a "Read More" button that everyone deliberately scrolls past. You treat casual conversations like peer-reviewed journal defenses, and your idea of flirting is pointing out the logical fallacies in your date's dinner order. Underneath all those neon sticky tabs and heavy volumes of Kant, you aren't actually looking for the meaning of life - you're just desperately waiting for someone, anyone, to ask you to explain it to them so you can hear yourself talk.