Am I sick?

Yesterday morning, I put all my crap on a truck and sent it on its merry way to Alexandria, Virginia. Amongst that crap was pretty much every book I own. I had a hard time getting to sleep last night. This is not unusual-- I've had chronic insomnia pretty much ever since I was about 10. Rosemary, the psychic, says it's because most of my chart is made up of fire signs-- thus my assorted consumptive appetites, thus my wild hair, thus my inability to calm things down inside my head long enough to get any sleep. But last night in particular, I had nothing to read and felt edgy trying to settle into bed while experiencing such a lack. So today, instead of packing up the rest of my clothes for the drive, instead of discarding all the useless stuff I've accumulated (including about 35 perfume samples that all reek, two different pairs of crazy key-lime green flipflops, this huge box of wire sculptures that I made for my college senior art show, a car harness for my dog who is now too fat--um, I mean, broad-chested!-- to fit in it, and, oh yes, about 6 colorful, sequiny, lacey tutus from assorted elementary school dance recitals (if only I were kidding)), I went to Barnes & Noble, corporate book hell, and spent a gift certificate and then drove straight over to Rhino, a great used book store and grossly depleted their poetry section. What is wrong with me? Two days without books and I go out and buy 8 new ones! I can't possibly read them all in the intermediary week until I unpack stuff. You know, I think Creative Writing MFA programs are really just big enablers for folks who already have an embarrassingly aquisitional attitude towards books-- and, instead of preparing us for such high-paying careers as "poets" or "teachers" or "bookstore employees," these programs leave us with perpetually expanding reading lists and, quite apparently, an addiction.