You may have told me you never read books. Lots of people never does. I can name four of you just like that, and I bet I know a lot more. Me, I grew up in books. I didn’t have friends in the same way everyone else did. I was a lonely child, and I was a lonely grown-up-to-be. I had friends, yes. But I think I found more solace in my books. Good old reliable books, with your soothing words and stiff binders.

And here I am. I am a book. I wear my feelings on my sleeve and I tell you everything you want to know about me. Perhaps I am a diary. There are a lot of things I keep secret. Trust me, I don’t ever share secrets. I keep them to myself, deep down in my heart where no-one will find them. And now I have to keep myself secret, in a way. I want to open the book and let everything pour out. I want you to take all my words and put them in context, and I want you to understand. But I am keeping them secret. It’s a revised book you get when you see me. The extended version is limited, and it’s only for loan if you show me that you can handle the truth.

I wish I could tell you more about the real me. I wish you wanted to know more about the real me. But I switched covers of my book when no one was looking and now you’re getting a story but perhaps not the real one..?

One day I’ll give you the real book. The one about me. With all pages solid and nothing ripped out. I don’t like ripping out pages, and I don’t like revised versions where things are changed or edited out. The real me. You think you can handle that?