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.