I just shoved a whole damn collection under my bed like a teenager hiding their stash, except it’s not weed, it's... *books*. And that other stuff. My parents are coming tomorrow and I’m 30, a *librarian* for god’s sake, and I’m still doing this charade? It's not a big deal but it feels like the whole fragile structure of *me* is about to collapse if someone just moves the duvet. We spend our lives building these little fortresses of self, no? And then one weekend visit from the folks, and suddenly you’re back to being a child again, terrified they’ll find the forbidden… everything. It’s stupid. It’s absolutely stupid.