I love books. I have a lot of books. Here is a picture of my home library:

My library

But all of my books cannot be contained in that one library, so I have them crammed in every corner of my house. I make furniture out of books — including a bookshelf, filled with books, made entirely of books. It looks pretty much like a big ass pile of books.

I drive a bookmobile. That’s not my job, I just drive one everywhere I go.

When people come over to my house, I stand in front of the big pile of books waiting for them to ask me if I’ve read them all. I frickin’ love that question. I then point out that they can look all they like and not find a single Dan Brown book. I then offer them an RC cola, which I serve by absorbing into a book, handing them the cola-saturated book, and inviting them to wring out the book into their mouths.

When I descended my mother’s birth canal, I had in my hand Boswell’s journal of his Hebrides tour. In fact, that may be where my love of books comes from — my mother had so many books she had to keep some in her uterus.