So, I have a BA in English Literature. I like to read. In fact, I love to read. Books to me are like chocolate cake to a chubby ten-year-old kid. OK, I'm sorry. That was a bit insulting.



Anyway, yes, I like to read. I enjoy browsing my local bookstore (preferably Borders) in search for whatever catches my interest at that given moment. Even if I've read a book before I'll still pick up a copy and glance through it, letting the words and passages seep back into the deep crevises of my mind, reminiscing the class discussion we had over a particular chapter, paragraph, or sentence and begin to feel mildly impressed with myself (not in a narcissistic fashion, of course, but enough to give myself a small pat on the back--confidence, maybe?).



Then, I begin to look through books I haven't read (yet), and I come to the realization that I don't know anything. I look around and see shelf after shelf of books I haven't read, all the ideas I've yet to become aquainted with, and I suddenly feel, well, stupid. And just like that (cue snap of fingers) the once comforting and relaxing bookstore becomes stressful, with each book taunting me and reminding me of how little and unimportant I am. I don't necessarily think this is a bad thing. Quite humbling, I suppose.