I’m breaking up with my bookshelf.  I haven’t told her yet, but she must know, right?  All the signs are there.  I’m never interested in reading from her.  I’ve left tomes in sloppy piles, not even organized by category.  I removed about a third of her contents a few weeks ago, and while she didn’t say anything, I knew it hurt her like hell.  It’s been months since we’ve had sex.

I feel awful for how I’m treating her, but  I can’t help it.  I wonder if I’m trying to get my bookshelf to leave me, so I can blame her for the pages I left unread.  ”I was going to read The Road to Serfdom, but my bitch ex-bookshelf left with it.”  That’s just great, Joe:  Hide your feelings and find a way to blame the bookshelf.

The worst part is why I’m doing it.  I was home over Thanksgiving, and I read on a Kindle for the first time.  Now, I never do stuff like that.  I thought it was a one-time thing… but I couldn’t stop thinking about that e-reader.  And now I’ve got one on the way with a Wall Street Journal subscription loaded onto it.

It’s going to kill my bookshelf;  I never put newspapers on her.