Second-Hand Reminiscing.

A long time ago (this is just what I’m told) I was in middle school, and quite the bookworm, reading anything and everything I could get my hands on. It never mattered whether or not it was too young for me, or too old.

Tolstoy to Dr. Seuss.

It just didn’t matter, because if it had a story, I wanted to be a part of it. Every book was like a portal into a whole new world and I hated the world I was in, where I had no friends and a deathly shyness.

That’s what I was told anyway.

I spent all my time in libraries and bookstores. I used to get kicked out of bookstores, in fact, because I would spend all my time reading my way through sections and never buying anything, and they got so annoyed that they had to call my father and ask him not to leave me there unsupervised.

Pardon the reminiscing.

It isn’t real reminiscing, you see, because you can’t get properly nostalgic over stories you’ve gotten second-hand.