Sometimes I feel like I was the only little girl who watched Beauty and the Beast and lusted–lusted I say—not over the love story, or of the clothes, or the idea of a house that would clean itself with no interference from me, but over the Beast’s library. In my childish mind, everything Belle went through with the Beast was worth it, not when he turned into a handsome prince but when he said she had free reign on his TWO STORY library with WALL TO WALL and FLOOR TO CEILING shelves stuffed with books. Damn skippy I’d marry a man for that many books, and that much space to store them in (since moving out of my parent’s house I’m realizing how much space my book collection really does take up). The point is, books are my obsession. I would rather read than eat (I usually read WHILE I eat to curb the desire to skip it entirely), rather read than sleep, rather read than talk to people. And it’s never just one book at a time–my book lust is too strong for that. Currently, I’m re-reading On The Road(at home), halfway through The Two Towers (at work and in waiting rooms), and two books away from finishing the Wheel of Time series (on hiatus while I finish LOTR). As you can imagine, I have a hard time finding people as obsessed with the subject as I am–my few friends who love to read as much as I do either have terrible taste (I’m sorry, but Twilight should be burned on sight, and I can say that because I subjected myself to all four of them) or are so busy they no longer have time to devour books at my rate. My boyfriend doesn’t read–well, he reads biographies of fighters, but that’s not helpful when I want to discuss how you can see the influence of Thoreau on Kerouac better in The Darmah Bums than in On The Road. So this is my what I am reduced to in my obsession–spilling my literary guts to an internet audience that may or may not exist. I feel like this is how Lindsay Lohan felt before going into rehab–the first time.