As my bio states, I have more than a “frequent user” Amazon addiction. Like any smoker hooked on nicotine, it is not only something I want, but something I need.
Every Sunday night I decide that I’m quitting “tomorrow,” and every Monday morning I’m lighting up my mouse and inhaling cheaply priced books. Thanks to what I can only describe as desperate pricing schemes, I’m able to buy classics for as little as a penny each. (Economy tanking, point one.)
Amazon, in its wise ways, has a suggestion tab that follows my every search and purchase; it has me pegged for the book-loving, knitting, comedy-appreciating lame-wad that I am. In fact, each time I check this tab I find myself complimenting its finds. “I didn’t know David Sedaris wrote plays,” I will tell myself, in shock. “There’s a Ferris Bueller/Animal House combo pack?! Sign me up please!” My wish list is tipping at four pages, and any time I’m in need of an item – office supplies, crafting glue, flash drives – I consult Amazon as one of my closest friends. It will honestly share customer reviews without fear of dashing any hopes, and if something is out of stock, it puts me first on the list for a new shipment, a real insider’s deal.
Their other genius factor about Amazon is the free shipping. “Spend $25, ship it for free,” is there motto. I will spend an extra $12 every time to avoid paying for illegal parking and ugly shorts (I’m talking to you, UPS). Simply by being good at research and placing in front of me what I didn’t know I needed, Amazon has likely swindled me out of thousands of dollars.
Defying Gravity (In the non-Broadway way)
The problem, however, with this spending habit, besides the amount I’m actually spending, is the book accumulation. My bookshelf is stacked from shelf floor to shelf ceiling, with horizontal piles to account for more space. The books are placed on top of, in front of, and near the shelf. Only, they still don’t fit. I’m also utilizing a secondary bookshelf, and spilling onto a third.
There is no sort of organization to the shelving process; the children’s books are intermingling with the dark comedies (the only time Tucker Max should be near children is figuratively). The nons and the fictions are neighborly close, and J.K. Rowling and Stephenie Meyer share a shelf – a sentence I’m having a hard time even typing.
The bookshelf, much like any Weeble or a tower of Seuss characters, sways and moves on its own schedule, but never actually falls. One day it may be an inch away from the wall, while two book exchanges later, it’s as many as three. Thanks to the sturdiness of the bookshelf, or possibly magic – trust me, it’s not my stacking abilities; I’m horrible at Jenga – it is still fulfilling its hoarding destiny.
But … if I’m going to have a problem, I’ll take this one. As Chandler Bing once said, “…my wallet is too small for all my fifties and my diamond shoes are too tight.”
In other news, I also have an extensive spread of yarn, but unlike the fabric threads, books are heavy. Thanks in advance to those who help me move.
Photo courtesy of Dr. Seuss’s Little Cats B C & A