Now I'd never know how Spot ran, or seen him run. Run, Spot, run.

I grabbed four books from the shelves at the library Saturday morning, and by 9 p.m., I'd had one completed. I am a total loser. The book, which wasn't even that good, had me on the couch, standing by the counter, on the back deck, in bed, obsessed. Not even with the content or the plot (cliches abound; rich women in a fake Ohio suburb complain about their husbands and designer clothes -- what can I say, it's beach reading without the beach). Just with, well, contents.

I freaking love reading. Much more than life. Even if books about women who scoff at the idea of getting a job make me want to kill myself.

I love reading so much that I yanked a tooth out once because Mom wouldn't let me walk to the bookmobile until it was out. Oh, logical, Mom. It's not like we didn't live in Kentucky and our oral health wasn't already questionable. "Erin, if that tooth isn't out by the time the bookmobile gets here, we're not going."

Not going? Gulp. I cried. I gathered my books in a pile and hid behind the rocking chair and pulled and pulled and cried and had that watery, little kid throat whine goin'. I was like, 6, by the way. This wan't last week or anything. I remember distinctly hearing my mom yell from the kitchen "Er-un, we're not go-ing unless you pull it 0ww-ut."

Yeah, like it's hard to see why I love books. With memories like that ... It's a wonder I don't have a drinking problem. Kidding.