I have been living a lie.
I am having an identity crisis.
And I have cotton wool stuck to my head.
As you may have gathered things are serious. After being of the impression all my life that I Am A Reader, I fear I may be mistaken. I have lost my power. All that is left is dorky, bespectacled Clarke Kent. Yet it is Superman, pants and all, who is needed.
Perhaps an explanation is needed. On being asked to come up with an anthology of six pieces of text attatched to a mere modicum of 'literary merit', I am at a loss. Me. The pretentious spoon who dares to connect the illustrious term of Reader to her name. Shameful.
Admittedly it is more the theme of prementioned anthology that is the blighter, not the texts themselves (those, after all, can be searched for on Google or the like. Don't worry, don't worry, literary parents of mine, only joking).
Of course I have a whole pile of books just waiting for me to devour and mentally digest. It sits mournfully by my bed, Joseph Conrad willing me to scan his rich prose, Oscar Wilde yearning for his wit to be appreciated. All the while I am guiltily, yet resolutely, ignoring their pleas. I keep meaning to read them naturally, it's just that the more pressing issue of becoming an absolute philistine and airhead bimbo calls for almost constant attention. And I let people think I am a well-read tycoon of the classics and critic of contemporary works. All a fabrication of alarming proportions.
I shall have to go and console my mortification steeped being by flicking through 'Heat' (only looking at the pictures of course) followed by an episode of Big Brother whilst painting my nails.
By the way, the cotton wool is due to me scratching a spot. There are times when youth is a favourable factor and advantageous beyond comprehension. This is not one of those times.