and i was being so good, too

rzzl frzzl books. i keep trying to get away from them. and i already know the answer (library). (but the hours suck). (i need a late-opened library).

a couple of years ago i swore off books.

don't get me wrong, i love them. and our love affair started young and has outlived alla my other relationships. i started my own library at age nine. carefully cataloging all of my favorite tomes, so sure that all of my friends (current and to be, because at a very young age i was still certain that everyone would eventually be my friend) wouldn't want to miss the delicious sentences, the beckoning plots, the circus stanzas.

at twelve i volunteered damn near every day at the public library (and ahem that would make me a genu-wine geek).

and at thirteen i became the snobby reader. meaning, if it didn't catch me in the first two pages, if not the very first paragraph, i couldn't be bothered.

luckily for me that still kept me surrounded by new bits of prose and poetry.

unluckily (disluckily, aluckily, nonluckily) that left many fabulous reads unread, as well.

around the age of 28 i decided my books were sheer clutter and i've spent years now paring down. paring down. and paring down again. until i just put myself on a book ban that lasted damn near two years.

somehow the damned ban's dam (sorry; i'm weak tonight) cracked a fine hairline and over the last year books have been slowly trickling in. nonfiction here. nonfiction there. nonfiction nonfiction nonfiction. fiction. fiction.

now it's become a deluge. i've got three rather good-sized bookcases and the third is going to have to go the way of the printed page instead of the way of the wine rack, as it so had hoped.

today's purchases:
dry and heart, you bully, you punk. see! i couldn't even decide on one.