Now I start a new chapter. I am going to try and catalog and then review what lines my bookshelves, rises in towers on my tables, desks, and dresser, rests in stacks on my spare room's floor, and hides beneath my bed. I will hold nothing back, I will show all my literary diet - even the smut and fluff and drivel. For we are what we read. I may not like my hair or my mouth and I might be self consicous about my various curves, but I will never be ashamed to lay bare my literary soul. Go look for yourself. I'll show you mine if you'll show me yours.
Edit: Ye gods! This is going to take forfuckingever! It's 2:20 am now and I'm only through the stacks of books that were lying WITHIN REACH OF THE DOOR on the floor of my spare room, plus a few that I just happened to come across on the site that I knew for certain that I read in my younger years. I'm not only addicted to books, I'm apparently addicted to listing books. How did this happen?! I have work to do this weekend! I have a boyfriend and a dog and other obligations and at least ten times this many more books to go through and list. And that's NOT even reviewing them or pulling out qoutes! What have I gotten myself into? If I disappear off the face of the earth just look behind the stacks of books on my coffee table and you'll find me slumped on the couch typing away... My fingers are actually locking up on my left hand! I've never had that happen before. I have to stop before I hurt myself. I'm going to bed - but I guarentee I'll be back at it tomorrow, and tomorrow and tomorrow...
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