Nooked

My new Nook is charging. Very soon I will become a downloading God. I will access cult magazines like Mulch Quarterly, buy cheap books by unknown authors by the hundreds, read newspapers from Nepal and Bhutan. I will see what adult material is available and download it so I can go to wholesome places and privately read about heaving bosoms and sweaty thighs. I will fly through entire books in an hour, engorging myself in the finest literature has to offer.
There is no limit to my voracious appetite for knowledge. Actually remembering facts is not important. What's key is my once knowing things few people have learned. I will access music, learn games that require dexterity, build a library William F. Buckley would envy. People on mass transit will stare at me in awe as I blow through entire chapters at a red light. I will look up words I never use.
I am going to love my Nook. I love its red earth case, a color I picked myself. I love how it sets just right in my palm. It's clear screen doesn't bend or stain and no pages can be torn out. Mostly I love the fact that I am now included in a very exclusive group--those carrying their own library. I need a name for my collection.  The Miracle of Narrative. Too long. Naked Words. Too suggestive. Piles of Wisdom. Sounds like a landfill. You know what? I'm just going to call my e- library Emma, in honor of Emma Goldman, who I think did something really important way back when, but I can't recall exactly what. Soon as my Nook gets charged, you'd better believe I'll find out.