I’m a voracious reader. I read well over 70 books each year.

I love books. I love writing. I love reading other people’s writing. I love writing about other people’s writing that I’m reading. I love fox in socks on box with clocks.

Sorry, I had a Dr. Seuss moment there for a second. I’m back now.

When I walk into a person’s house, one of the first things I’m drawn towards is their collection of books. Apparently I have a magnetic attraction to a filled bookshelf. It’s actually kind of rude of me.

“Hi how are you nice house where’s your bookshelf oh I see it over there I’m going to check out what you’re reading I’ll be over here if you need me with my back facing you while I analyze your taste in novels and potentially judge you based on what you’re displaying.”

I’ve always believed that you can tell a lot about a person by the books that they read.

Then I dated this one woman.