Why am I so intent on revealing my secrets on this blog? Jeez. Pretty soon I will have nothing to show of any importance.
A woman in the crowd snorts and says, “As if you had anything important to say in the first place.”
I stare balefully for a minute at the offending illusory person before shaking my fist at them and responding, “Quiet you.”
For the first time in this imaginary scenario, I stand up from my chair. I hold up a hand and in my best boy scout hand gesture thing and a penitent cast to my voice say this: “Hello. I am the Captain and I have a problem. I am addicted to reading.”
Oh no. I hear you groaning already. I slump back into my chair. That same, rather rude, imaginary crowd member has the audacity to speak once more, “That’s not a real addiction. Give us the juicy stuff.”
She starts flopping her arms in the air trying to whip up the crowd in a frenzy of rampaging disappointment. When nothing happens she crosses her arms and pouts.
I flash a winning smile at her. Anyway, back on track.
I’m addicted to reading. There. It’s said. There’s no turning back from it. It’s in the public domain now (or at least floating around the internet).
When did this addiction start (you might ask were you actually interested)?
I’ve had it forever. As a young tyke, impressionable with wide eyes gazing afresh upon this wonderful wide world (Oh how naïve I once was!), my father and mother would read books aloud to me. Thus beginning my love affair with the written word. I was still slightly free then. I could’ve been normal. Here’s where I blame my dad.
One day he appeared with books in hand. I looked up at him eyes aglisten with curiosity when he presented three rather battered books. The books weren’t all shiny and new and as an idiotic young kid my interest immediately began to wane. He explained that they were books he had read around my age. Then he told me their name and I was forever lost to the darkness. My fate was sealed.
Basically what I’m trying to say here is thanks dad.
book names, now.