Are you reading ANOTHER BOOK?

I read in my spare public time a lot. In my spare private time, I prefer to snuggle and watch TV. I don’t read magazines much. I don’t read Dan Brown (though I have read 1 book). I don’t read Steven King (though I have read 1 book). I don’t read Eat Pray Love or The 5 People You Meet in Heaven. I read books no one has heard of by authors no one has heard of. I read a few classics now and then to see what the fuss is all about. I have rarely read a book in public someone has commented on because they, too, have read it. Maybe twice in my life (not counting sitting in Anspach hall). I have college degree opinions about books. I took classes strictly on analyzing. I PASSED A FINAL EXAM ON WAR AND PEACE. I'M NOT FUCKIN' AROUND HERE. Interrupting me while I'm reading is tantamount to interrupting a couple on a date. Asking me if I like a book is like asking Ebert (he’s the not dead one, right?) if he liked a movie: the answer isn’t yes or no. There are parts, there are moments, there are symbols and themes and story lines. It’s just too hard to explain.

At work, especially, I hear it a lot:
“You like to read?” Yes. Yes I do. This book in my nose is not just to give me reason to ignore you, although that is one of its skills.
“What do you like to read?” Now, I began answering this question with “books” several years ago. Mostly because “even if I told you, you’ve never heard of it” sounds rude and presumptuous even it is true. I try and name my favorite authors (Ayn Rand, Chuck Palahniuk, Jeffery Eugenides, Lorrie Moore) but people just stare blankly.
“Do you have a favorite genera?” Ugh. Is phenomenal a genera? Fiction. Always fiction.
“Do you read best sellers? Oprah books?” Sigh. “Sometimes.”
“You know Steven King/Dan Brown? I read one of his books. I like him.” That’s like having never seen a football game in your life and never watching one again and saying, “I like the Lions. I think they’re good.”
My little literary heart breaks.
The me who memorized the first act of Romeo and Juliet at age 12 cries.
The college me who refused to ever use feminism as a paper topic is ignoring you.
The college me who wrote a paper entitled “Horatio: I’m still standing” upon her 3rd reading of Hamlet, that described how the actual protagonist in the play is Horatio makes a frowny face.
The college me who wrote a paper trying to prove that that wretched Jane Eyre was a bitch and her and that guy she was with weren’t really in love, but actually in a codependent relationship huffs away angrily.
The college me who read Waterland twice in one semester (4 times total through the course of school) and cried for 3 days because she couldn’t narrow down a term paper topic because the book is Just. That. Damn. Good…. She wants to punch you in the face.
The 18 year old me who spent 3 years crooning over the quotes from The Fountainhead and then spent 4 weeks reading it religiously except for that 2 day break where she put the novel in the freezer because she was so emotionally involved with the characters, they were becoming a drain on her real emotions… that girl wants you to shove your made for TV books up your ass.

It’s like that time there was a nerd joke on a mouse pad and I asked JD what it meant. He essentially told me that to even explain the joke, I’d have to understand expert level computer functions. It’s like calling someone who is 450lbs. “big boned” Like calling a hoarder “messy” Like calling a drug addict a “stoner” or an alcoholic a “social drinker”

I like reading more than I like people. I prefer to have my eyes in a book then accidentally lock stare with a stranger and have to make conversation.

The reason I’m so snooty about literature is because I’m not intelligent enough to have an opinion on much else. I don’t know history. I can’t name a war or a person who fought it in or the president it was under. I couldn’t label China on a map, ok? I don’t know which way is East. I have to remind myself the difference between republican and democratic, and I don’t know which color belongs to which, and I don’t know who gets the donkey. But if you want to compare and contrast pedophilic tendencies in James Joyce’s collection of short stories entitled Dubliners, send me an e-mail because I don’t like to talk on the phone.