Obsession and Addiction

I, my friends, have a strange addiction. A very strange addiction indeed. I'm addicted to buying books. I may or may not have the right to blame this addiction on genetics.

I went to the BYU Bookstore this afternoon during my lunch break, searching for a little something for a friend's bridal shower. I spent the whole hour wandering around the store wondering what in the world I would get for her. After giving up on the knick-knack section several times over, I headed to the book section to see if maybe, just maybe there was something I could think of to give to her.

I found a cute book that suited my purpose just fine. And then I spotted it. The very section of the store I do not let myself wander into unattended. The area filled with shelves of the most precious little versions of all classic books any self-respecting English major {or any other major for that matter} should own. Jane Eyre. Peter Pan. The Scarlet Letter. The Picture of Dorian Gray. David Copperfield. Shakespeare's Sonnets.

The works.

I picked up a copy of Shakespeare's Sonnets, thinking to myself how perfectly precious it was. How I needed to own it. How wonderfully it would look tucked into my now overflowing bookshelf. Then I grabbed Peter Pan. "Oh, how I love this story!" I exclaimed to myself. {Inside my head naturally}. Then Jane Eyre caught my eye and found its way into my hands.

"I can't buy all these," I thought. "My money must be saved! I need to buy groceries and new shoes. The books can wait." I put Jane Eyre down. "Well maybe I can just buy one. They're not expensive. But just one of them." I held Peter Pan in one hand and Shakespeare's Sonnets in the other. My hands began to shake and my breath came in short bursts as I struggled to choose which precious treasure to leave behind; debating which book's feelings would be hurt worse if I left it there. I decided to spare both books' feelings and bought them both.

And that ladies and gentlemen is how my addiction works.