Or, 3 Reasons Why I’m Surprised I Can Function Socially (Well, Sort of Function)
1. Constant allusiveness.
Last week during a bleary-eyed walk to the bathroom in the middle of the night, I thought “Gah, this sucks, I feel like Gandalf finding a path through the mines of Moria.” It didn’t help that I caught sight of Piglet lurking in the shadows like a balrog.
Anyway, see what this means? I’m not even having original thoughts any more. My inner monologue is now just an unending stream of book excerpts—and currently it seems to rely heavily on a mixture of Hamlet, P.G. Wodehouse novels, and exclamatory expressions used by Nero Wolfe (pfui!).
2. Obsession not only with books but also with lists of books.
I recently spent an entire afternoon reorganizing my main Goodreads list into a number of more granular lists dedicated to various categories, in order to better analyze my reading habits and preferences. Here are some pie charts demonstrating the results (predilection for pie charts is another daily struggle).
Here’s a bar graph illustrating how little you care.
3. Severe withdrawals.
I invariably experience a period of malaise after reading a truly good novel, during which I mope and fret and dismiss all other books as weary, stale, flat, and unprofitable. This condition is even more acute following completion of a series. When I finished Deathly Hallows, for instance, I sank into despondence so deep that it took weeks before I had the heart to pick up another book, and it was a challenge just to keep my hair brushed and eat something besides peanut-butter toast. You know there’s something wrong when your reading habits directly result in the consumption of three jars of Skippy Natural.