You know how it is with addictions, I mean collections … once someone finds out about your weakness, she takes it upon herself to be your supplier. She exploits you. She gives you better deals if you buy more. Then you end up with this:
Books are my weakness. {Well, one of my weaknesses.} Some spineless, some missing their covers, many with loose pages. I start out trying to find a place for them. I phoned my mom just yesterday. “Do we need any books in Llano?” {She kindly reminded me of the two SETS of books I still have at my far-away space.} Then I start trying to find projects for them, such as book cover wall hangings. I even survey my furniture supply to see if any of the pieces could use a book page-mod podge treatment. Yes! It would be much easier to cover the area behind the shelves of that HUGE china cabinet with book pages than to paint it!
But then I spend hours paging through my tattered supply, only to discover, sadly, that I can’t part with any of them.
Some have text that is just too beautiful:
Some were too big a steal, and the story behind the find is just too entertaining. Others wouldn’t be appreciated by ANYONE but me. And the rest? Well…no one would be willing to pay what they are worth.
So I keep them all, hoarder that I am. And I admit that it IS an addiction. Although as one of my suppliers — Melissa — would say, “It’s cheaper than doing drugs.”
True that.
