We have a special relationship. My Kindle and I do. We spend an inordinate amount of time together. It’s a joined-at-the-hip, or in this case, at-the-thumb, kind of thing.
And so it is with some degree of sadness that I’ve come to the realization that my Kindle doesn’t understand me at all.
The books it recommends don’t fit my reading profile. Many of them feature hunky, macho, thong-clad studmuffins. OK, so I read Fifty Shades of Gray (yes, the entire series) but that was some time ago. I’ve matured. I’m totally over that stuff. Shouldn’t my very own Kindle know that by now?
It also recommends books about fair-maidens seductively lured into the occult. I’m no longer a fair maiden so that doesn’t exactly rock my boat. And as to the occult? Well, I already have my very own ghosts. They live here. In this house. If my Kindle would read my blog, it would know that.
I’ve poured a lot of energy….to say nothing of time and money….into this relationship. I think I’ve earned the right to expect a tad more appreciation of my reading preferences.
I’m not suggesting that there’s anything subversive or wrong about its recommendations for me. Perhaps it’s trying to get me out of my rut.
Maybe I should just give in and read one of those hunky-muffin books. Maybe I should send the Mister a damsel-in-distress book. Maybe, just maybe, my Kindle knows me better than I know myself.
It’s not much of an investment. Very little to be lost. Those books are cheap. We’ll see what happens.