Okay this is the article. I tweaked it a lot.

Shelf Life

There are certain things about bookstores that make every booklover’s head reel: the shiny floors, the conspiratorial buzz of anonymous comrades, and the stacks upon stacks of gleaming, inviting pieces of heaven, in all their plastic-wrapped glory. It feels like home, how you know it like the back of your hand. Even if you are the most geographically-disabled person, you know that in a bookstore, getting lost is out of the question. How can you get lost when everything is so impeccably arranged? When everything is so compartmentalized? Fiction. Non-fiction. History. Philippine Publications. Everything is sorted in comfortable, foolproof, alphabetical order. Rest assured, you will always find your way. Running your fingers along the multiple copies of the multiple books, there is the assurance that no matter what, they will never fail you. No matter what, they will always be there – for you and whoever else needs them. At peace, you take your time to dawdle, to peep at what other people are buying, to stand around and take everything in, even until the last possible minute before it is time to leave and finally, take The Book home with you. You can do this with your eyes closed. It’s automatic.

Realize that in all its sterility and mechanization, you take part in its automation. All the world’s a stage, says Shakespeare. So what of your usual bookstores? Well, they’re an anti-climactic, plot-less play. Sure, it’s safe and dependable. What about the rising action, though? The climax? The catharsis?

That, my friends, is where the secondhand bookstores come in.

The place is usually small -- inconspicuous except to keen observers and serious book-scavengers. More often than not, they are found in stalls located within groceries, markets, and malls. Inside, there are rows upon rows of well-worn wooden shelves filled to the brim with books, magazines and school supplies. Beneath each shelf, squished at the very bottom, are more books. The difference, however, is that they are endearingly scattered in a dizzying disarray. No categories here. The few signs that they have to point you in the right direction almost always fail. The Grishams are heaped along with the Atwoods. Sandwiched between two books on astrology is a Norton Anthology. Nothing is where it should be and tell me, what can be more exciting than that? You are required, then, to rapidly rummage through piles, feverishly flip over titles, and doggedly dig through every mound of material. The best part is, that you never know what you are looking for. One goes into secondhand bookstores with a wonderful sense of anticipation because, in the words of Forrest Gump, you never know what you’re gonna get.

There is an art to looking for these diamonds in the rough. Scared of dust? Away with you -- get thee to posh, sterile, overpriced bookstores. Walking gingerly between shelves will not get you that “The Robber Bride” by Margaret Atwood, “Letters Home” by Sylvia Plath, or “In the Night Kitchen” by Maurice Sendak. The most effective and strategic way to look at all the books is to go down on your hands and knees. Yes. There is nothing to lose and everything to gain by prostrating yourself before literature.

Also, there is the fact that the books are used. Granted, there is a certain pleasure derived in breaking into the wrapper of a new book. Like a new baby, you develop an almost motherly affection. You make sure that your hands are clean before you start reading it, you make sure that the spine will not bend, and, just to be sure that nobody else held it, you take a book from the middle of the stack. It guarantees the true sense of ownership. On the other hand, it is only natural for books to age. They get liver spots, wrinkles and wet patches - no matter how fastidiously you prevent them from happening. So what happens to books that are pre-handled, dog-eared, and worn? Apart from their being dirt cheap, there is a certain romance in a pre-owned book.

One thing about secondhand books is that they have a history to them, which is, if you think about it, fascinating. Inside books, I had found shopping lists with 4 different kinds of pasta, inter-state boarding passes, names proudly written on the front page, doodles, etc. It turned the reading of the book into a whole new experience, knowing it came from other hands and touched other minds. It is a story – one that is scribbled hurriedly upon, behind and within another story. It is like holding a little hand mirror up to a full-length one, with different faces for each reflection.

Secondhand bookstores, finally, have soul. They are conducive to so much emotions – the urgency of the search, the suspicion that someone is eyeing your pile, the fear of not getting to a book on time, and, of course, the thrill and ensuing satisfaction at having found a treasure of a book. Books are not bought in secondhand bookstores. They are found, they are deserved, and they are doubly (and in some cases, triply) cherished. Consider the dog-ears proof of how much attention it received, how much love. What is on the outside, after all, is perishable. It is what is inside that has no shelf-life.

Real Entry: In other news, I got an A for Fr. David's paper. I'm thrilled as fuck. I remember when my mother went up to him in Shangri-la Hotel, right up at the buffet table and...

Mom: Hi Father! (in this cheery voice)
Fr. David: Are you a student at the Ateneo?
Mom: Uh, no, my daughter is, though! (still cheery)
Mom: She keeps wanting to enter your class but it's always full! (lying through her teeth!)
Fr. David: Really? How is that possible? My classes never get full because students keep avoiding me.

And the moral of the story is? Don't lie. But I love my mom, she knew I had a "crush" on him so she talked to him, yay. And, the next semester, lo and behold, I became his student. Beautiful "love story" is it not?

Big D, I will be your friend whether you like it or not.