The New York Public Library is going to start sending me hate mail. The stack of library books is starting to become a stack of overdue library books, one by one (or three by three). And yet I keep going back for more. As far as addictions go, this one seems harmless enough, but if I'm found dead forty years from now and they have to break into my apartment after the meowing of my dozen cats gets so loud the neighbors complain, it's conceivable that they won't be able to open the door because the delinquent books will have overfilled the space and there isn't a square inch of room in which to move.
It's definitely conceivable...
I'm reading as fast as I can, damn it!
Middlesex is the current text, and I'm sure I will finish it as soon as the sound craps out on my laptop again, making it impossible to spend my evening watching Star Trek.
-Roo
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