I've been told that I have some weird reading quirks. I don't sit still. When a book starts getting good, I burrow myself in my bed and block out the outside world. I tell myself, "one more chapter" and then suddenly it's five in the morning and I have to wake up in three hours. I use anything as a bookmark — a bottle of nail polish, a dollar bill, a wand (yes, I have wands). Anything that works. I yell at the pages. I cry on the subway.
There was one time when I was so upset over a book's ending that I wanted to hurl it away like Bradley Cooper in Silver Linings Playbook. I was at a resort, and I had acquired a sunburn because I couldn't get off the beach until I'd finished the romance novel I was reading. But when I reached the end, I was so furious with the author's decision that I threw the book away from me. Unfortunately, I was in the pool at the time and so the book got soaked. I regret nothing. The next book I read caused me to inhale deeply and press it to my chest. I hugged it, and I didn't care that people were staring or that it was now covered in sand and sunscreen. I needed to hug that book.