"We are like mechanics working on a car. We know what we are doing, it is a routine." - Katrina Firlik

To the salesperson at my B&N: Ok, OK, I give up! I LOVED The Kite Runner but I was willing to wait for the paperback of A Thousand Splendid Suns until you waxed lyrical about it AND noted that my member discount makes it only fifteen dollars! All right, I’ll come back and buy it.

To Jessa Crispin of Bookslut: I have just requested Joanna Kavenna’s Inglorious from the local library. I did not run out and buy it, because you and I, while I admire you greatly, do not have similar reading tastes. And I have to save my money for Hilma Wolitzer’s newest book, Summer Reading. (Although, now that I mention it, I remember liking The Doctor’s Daughter but I don’t remember a damn thing about it.) I trusted you, Jessa; don’t let me down.

To every single goddamn reviewer: I do not like Dom DeLillo. I do not like him in a box. I do not like him with a fox. I do not like him in a house. I do not like him with a mouse. I do not like him here or there. I do not like him anywhere. The first chapter of Underworld was the single most overrated, jaw-achingly boring chapter I have EVER read. I wanted to muscle through it because Rogue Librarian gave me the book as a thirtieth birthday present, but I COULD NOT DO IT. I will not like Falling Man either. I promise you. Leave me alone already.

To my dearest Suse: your copy of Animal Vegetable Miracle is finally winging its way to you over thar in Oz. I even signed it, love. (So you can’t return it, sorry.)

To a fellow Laurie King fan (um, Peg, that’d be you): I just bought Art of Detection in paperback last night and am so excited! Share my excitement! You know you want to!

To Nando Parrado: I am very sorry you had to eat your fellow teammates to survive, but your bravery and strength are astounding. I am very much looking forward to reading Miracle in the Andes, although, I must tell you how utterly bizarre I find it that it was shelved in Sports>Soccer.

To my Intro to Critical Reading prof (on whom I harbored a mad, obviously unrequited, potentially embarrassing crush): It was only my infatuation with your brains that made me read The English Patient and it is entirely your fault that I now believe Michael Ondaatje to be one of the most amazing living writers, and almost entirely your fault that I will have to buy his newest book Divisadero, rather than borrowing it from the library. I hope you’re happy, Mr Smarty-Pants.

To my dad: Hey, Dad, do you remember how you used to worry that the weight of my measly two bookcases stuffed full of YA paperbacks was going to compromise the structural integrity of our house? I am currently attaching to my bedroom walls floor-to-ceiling shelving that will probably hold over five hundred books, and so far my house is still standing. I really think you were worrying over nothing.

To Pokemon et al.: You may think you’ve insinuated your cute, spiky, yellow self into Primo’s affections, but *I* hold the purse strings, little fellow, and I am not too sure about you and your cadre of adorably dorky monsters just yet. Although I admit that calling the handbook The Complete Pokedex is really kinda clever, and I may grudgingly admit you to my house. Just don’t even consider bringing Tentacruel or that snarky little Sneasel with you.

To Frank Vertosick: I loved When the Air Hits Your Brain but Katrina Firlik’s Another Day in the Frontal Lobe appears to be the up-and-comer in brain-surgery-for-consumers lit. I do wonder about those pristine white sneakers she wears on the cover, though. Which brings me to this:

To everyone who watches CSI and/or any of its thousand and one spin-offs: You enjoy your TV, I’ll be lying on the couch reading Gil Reavill’s Aftermath, Inc.. I have a cast-iron stomach, so I may well be eating Chubby Hubby ice cream while reading. The best thing? No commercials. I prefer my gore uninterrupted, thankyouverymuch. Now pass the ice cream.