Casey sent me an email yesterday that I totally spaced on until like five minutes ago when I was trolling around Facebook. (I love Facebook for these days when I want to feel like I have friends but I don’t have the courage to actually TALK to anybody….)
Anyway, back to the email….
It was regarding a discussion on Reddit about renting used paperbacks through some type of exchange program.
I know that a company like that used to exist…it was sort of the Netflix of paperback books…but I can’t think of the name right now. (All together–Viagra!) I thought about joining, but I’ll be honest. I have to own paperbacks. Of course, when I’m done with them I try to give them away to keep the love going and to pay down my karmic debts. I’m thinking that 100 give-away paperbacks might make up for the private thoughts I have about causing pain to both Hannity and Colmes.
But yeah. I have to own the paperbacks, because I have to feel like it’s okay to get bubblebath on them, smears of chocolate and pizza sauce or even those little indentations on the bottom of the pages that my thumbnail leaves. You can generally tell that I’ve read a paperback just because the bottom right side of every page looks like a braille cussword–dozes of tiny half-moon pressmarks testify to my having been there.
Paperbooks owned by me have smudges of lipstick from the tubes that slide open in my purse and meander over to the Purse Book of the moment. Books owned by me smell faintly of dog and Clinique Happy. They have old airline boarding passes and doctor appointment reminder cards marking places I was either planning to read or needed to store my bookmark. I live both in and on my books. I don’t think I can lease them from a stranger.