Got a chance to do some prime people-watching at the Seattle Central Library (that big glass-and-steel building with the was-the-architect-drunk odd angles downtown); normally I do my fancy book learnin' in Kent, but the economics and history section there is so small that I think I may have actually read every book of interest on that shelf.

So I headed to the big city, where you could read a book every day for a lifetime of triple-digit years and never get through them all. Found a book on the Great Northern Wars ("A Warrior Dynasty" by Henrik Lunde, the only thing Swedish about this tale) to enjoy.

The price paid for this literary find was an army of feral, homeless niggers who couldn't pronounce the word "library" if you tied them down and had R. Lee Ermey screaming at them that they wouldn't be allowed to go until they stopped saying "liberry." Outside the front, pavement apes begging for gibs. Third floor, idle, shifty niggers with nothing to do with their time except leer at the cute human girl working behind the reading-recommendation counter (not that they can read, so they'd have nothing to talk to her about besides their dicks), possibly only held in check by a security guard who looked like he could be Mike Pence's long-lost brother watching them in that way that white law enforcement does when there's niggers about.

Fifth floor, public computers; humans searching for jobs, niggers stinking out the joint and, I wish I were kidding, a buck actually watching porn on a public computer. I guess the library's filtering software missed a site.

Moving up, the "book spiral", floors 7-10, where they keep the nonfiction. White dudes playing video games on their laptops...and niggers sleeping or causing trouble. It was like I'd left a library and entered a multi-level Museum of TNB.

And finally, just to add a bit of insult to injury, the library has escalators that you can go up between the floors I just mentioned, but because of a design quirk, you cannot go from Floor 6 to Floor 5 going down without using either a fire-exit stairwell or an elevator.

And the elevator ride down after I got my book? A nigger so foul-smelling that when he got off at the floor with the bathrooms, his stink lingered the entire rest of the way down, a vile pall like the stench of a morgue with a broken refrigeration system in Miami in July.

I had my fill of coontacts for months, and the whole thing reminded me why I recused myself from being a front-line gentrifier in Pioneer Square and fucked off to the suburbs this past month. I'm happier here, where if I choose my locations well for errands and such, I can have a nigger-free day.