Counting the Pages, Counting the Days

I'm reading a lot again. This happened last year, probably about this time, when I was sitting on the couch, reading reading reading until I had practically read emptied the LA County Library of books. I had a reason--I was unemployed. I was bored. I was trying to learn things whilst being totally unproductive.
And I learned a lot. I learned the entire history of Mormonism; how beautiful the mountains in Afghanistan are; what life was like for some during Hurricane Katrina; and all about Tracy Morgan's upbringing. Valuable, no? Some of it, perhaps.
It became a game, a contest of "how many?" and "how much?" I started logging my books on websites as if seeing the list stack up online, in public, somehow made the dusty stack in the living room by the couch seem less depressing, and more of an achievement. I was channeling my 12 year old self. The girl who was deemed "Class Bookworm" in my Jr. High yearbook. (And I surely looked the part. Huge glasses, braces and a perm that never should have happened.)
I remember a reading contest, judged by pages read, my teacher held. I don't remember the prize, I barely remember the books, but I do remember the competition, and the number of pages. My best friend was my page-gobbling nemesis. She and I were smarty pants book addicts who were maybe a teensy bit competitive. Maybe.
I won. That is all that matters. I read my teacher out of house and home (if that only made sense). She had a "library" of books on her back wall and I read them all. That's right. All of them. I was a reading freak. No wonder I needed the big glasses.
I am this way about consumption in general, I've realized.
My Netflix queue? FULL. Always full. Movies I've rated? Thousands. It's as if my brain starts chanting, "Must. Rate. Movies. Now. Now NOW!" and I can't stop. But what's the point? Exactly. There is none. Especially since I am soooo terrible at retaining the information I am devouring in all these books/movies/magazines/blog posts/twitter feeds (the list goes on...).
Ask me about the history of Mormonism.
I dare you. Just ask.
.....
Sigh.
Okay, so I remember a few tidbits (what a sordid past those there Mormons do have).

Last year my reading rampage began out of nothing-else-to-do (or so I thought. My beau at the time certainly disagreed), and this year, it's a little different. I still have almost nothing to do, and truthfully would rather be more productive and nearly too busy to read. But, alas, I've got time on my hands. And, well, currently I'm sick, and I've watched every episode of Top Chef and can't bear to start watching Hoarders because I might get even sicker. So, I read. I love that reading, when listed as a hobby, is so benign. It's so accepted and perhaps even highbrow. It's as if people don't realize that there is as much junk to be consumed in a bookstore as there is in the candy and chips aisle at the market, or on the FOX network full of reality TV fluff.
I don't read junk, in my opinion. In fact, those huge paperbacks with the cliche front cover and the author's name in a huge puffy font are not attractive to me. I'm more of a vintage-colored, subdued, rather thin memoir kind of gal. If you must know.
And if you're curious about my reads--head over to my shelfari. So I can boast in public. I'm still adding up the pages (always been terrible at math), and have no clue what kind of prize I will win, but I'm working hard toward it anyway, like a dumb dog racing after that stick.
What are you reading right now??

A snapshot of some of my books. I finally tried organizing them by color like all the cool kids do. But I still prefer alphabetical.