In Which I Attempt to Start Doing This More Often Again

This all started I suppose back in first grade when I pretended to have read Little House in the Big Woods to impress, I suppose, my teacher or my fifth-grade reading partner or someone. Or maybe in kindergarten when I read my first book on my own (which my mother thinks I probably just had memorized, it was read to me so many times). My leisure time is reading time. Yes there's ultimate which I am also slavishly devoted to but that has a wearying tendency so that over the course of weeks or months or a long practice or even pickup I need to do something else for a while. Often, read. I am addicted to the flow of language on a page - just ask Ethan what it's like when I clean off a table or my desk. I spend more time reading though the pages that I'm about to throw away -just in case there's something worth keeping, some vital knowledge or delightful turn of phrase I'm going to miss- than I do actually organizing or throwing out what's left. My mother sent me to sports summer camp so I wouldn't sit around and read all day, every day, during the summer. A smarter, slimmer sort of couch potato. I would fall into some kind of raptured trance and enter whatever world the words fashioned sometimes losing all my connection with the real world - of hearing, sight, sound, except for the crawling black ink on the page. It's like a heroin addiction and unfortunately my dealer lives across the street and conveniently gives out lots of free samples. I'm not sure how many books we've plundered from Powell's this summer but there have been at least one or two days of infamy so far - June 15th always being profitable and finals in general a fairly good period. I pick up literature and non-fiction and textbooks and crap. And I read it all, eventually, and put most of it back when I'm done. The Hyde Park Lending Library, as it were.
I seem to have lost some focus what with no longer being miserable in Philadelphia all the time nor trapped in boring classes in school. Even with work (which I carefully shirk) and ultimate and my lovely kitchen this summer I still am haunted by the stack of books I pick up and feel compelled, constantly, to read. And I do. I finished two books yesterday instead of learning the perfect passive in German and picked up four more today. It only seems right to (temporarily, at least) couple my compulsion for reading with compulsory writing. So ensues the chronicle of Trophywife and the Printed Word.