Literary Damage

The life of a reader is a hazardous one. As a helpful warning, here are the most memorable injuries sustained by me (or my surroundings) due to the profusion of books in my life:

Innumerable scars on my fingers--from papercuts.

A sizeable goose-egg on my forehead caused by inching my dad's copy of the Lord of the Rings trilogy off a high shelf. (I've since bought my own book, which is stored at eye-level.)

A sizeable dent in my wall caused by hurling Twilight across my room when it became unbearably stupid. Again. (I've since covered the dent with my bookshelves.)

Absolutely horrible vision, probably due to countless nights spent reading by the meager light provided by my alarm clock in order to keep my parents equally "in the dark" about my nocturnal habits.

Back problems, which really could be attributed to my penchant to carry an armload of 30+ books while reshelving at the library or a bag of at least twenty while exiting said building.

A severely-sprained ankle achieved by tripping down the stairs at the library.

And, most recently, a sprained wrist: the product of holding up the 2000-odd page, hardcover Riverside Shakespeare for several hours while engrossed in The Winter's Tale.

These and more will surely continue to plague me, but in the end I must say it's all worth it.

Thanks and acknowledgement to my English class for informing me of the ridiculousness of my latest affliction and thus forcing me to write this post.