This is a cautionary tale, and one that could have been much worse. I, you see, am an avid reader. You can often catch me — Kindle in hand — admiring prose from authors like Truman Capote, or Googling how much LSD it takes to actually kill a man after reading Hunter S. Thompson. On any given weekend, I might be in the mood to read poetry by Maya Angelou or perhaps dream of throwing away all my worldly possessions and moving to a cabin in the woods a la Henry David Thoreau. These were masters of their craft, and I enjoy being…
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