Sweetie bought me an e-reader for Christmas.
Last weekend, I finally cleared the last surface remaining in my study room upon which no books reside, to make room for a stack of books that has lived in a corner of the floor for years.
So I have no excuse, no rationale, no reason, no justification for what I did today.
Why did I make a left out of the parking lot on my lunch hour, southward towards the local college, instead of right?
Oh pathetic addict that I am, who shall deliver me out of this body of bibliomania?
Perhaps I convinced myself that I would find no books worth buying. Or that I could just look and carry none away. The devil sat upon my shoulder and flipped pages in my ear.
The evidence of my shameful deed is in a paper bag in my car, eight more books to cram into the confines of my home. Sweetie will not be pleased.
But they looked so good! I nabbed books of poetry, books about places and old books long out of print and not likely ever to land in an e-reader. I couldn't help myself.
The library enables, that wicked place. Four dollars is a steal for a whole shelf of great literature. Yes, a whole shelf that I surely will never have time to read until I am dead. But you see, that's my plan. Whilst other departed souls are tapping on tables and making cold spots in old houses, I shall finally have time to sit down and read all the books I hoarded in my life, reveling in my spectral opportunity to peruse pages instead of running errands and making a living.