Here it is folks. The Tower of Shame.
At least it used to be a tower, singular. Now there are six high-rises – the beginnings of an unread metropolis – and a smattering of smaller structures sprouting in their shade.
The original foundations were laid around 15 years ago, when I was still in high school – the oldest book here, Bram Stoker’s Dracula, dates back to the year 2000 I think – but I managed to keep it to a single tower for the better part of a decade.
The second tower split from the first, like a virus replicating, maybe seven or eight years ago. My beside went from Burj Khalifa – impossibly high, swaying in the wind – to the Twin Towers.
Around the same time as I crossed that psychological barrier I found myself with a little extra disposable income. And so the floodgates opened.
Now here they are, monuments to my addictive personality and lack of self-control.
It’s terrible economics. I’ll routinely buy a $50 hardcover new release book only to bury it so deep on the pile I eventually forget I own it. And when (if) I finally get around to reading it, it’s a fraction of the original price.
The problem of course is simple: I buy faster than I read. But maybe, just maybe, if I read 52 books this year I can change that equation and curb this bedroom urban sprawl.