I tried.  I really did.  I thought, today is the day to start an exercise routine, cut out white flour and refined sugars, switch to those new weird light bulbs, and get an E-Reader.  And I just . . . couldn’t.

Call me old fashioned, but I like the feel of paper slipping through my fingers.  I like to re-read a book from last summer and find that red splotch on page 93 — the last remains of the mosquito that bugged me one minute too long all those months ago . . .  There something intimate, maybe sexy even, about a book in my hands.  I could write a whole post on the subtle difference in cover textures, but it’s late and I don’t want to creep anyone out.  The truth is, I don’t care if my travel bag is heavy with books, or they’re spilling all over my book case, or I’m turning pages so fast I have paper cuts.  I want a freakin’ book.  Not a gadget.  *sigh*  There.  That felt good.

And now I’ve got to get back into my latest acquisition.  A fresh-off-the-presses, soon-to-be-NYT-best-seller.  And, man, you should smell it.  I think the ink may still be wet.  Divine.


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