The tex, kisses, Beyblades, jolens, and Batman action figures have all come and gone, but the books remain, even if only in memory. I was never really the type who’d play with Barbie dolls, but I was a very easy kid to please. All it took was a book, thick or thin, and this is the exact reason why I couldn’t fake appreciation whenever I tore apart a fancy package to find Hello Kitty inside or some other girly thing like a glittery pink bag or bracelets.

I take it back. I was a very difficult kid to please, if you didn’t know where my heart was.

It also helps that my parents spoiled me—on books, that is. They’d get me books that I’d feel too intimidated to read, thinking that it wasn’t my level, but I’d get around to reading and loving them anyway. By thirteen, I had already finished Les Miserables. I know, I’m no Richard Feynman, and finishing a Victor Hugo by high-school age is no unimaginable feat…but it’s a milestone for me. My journey in reading didn’t stop there, though, as I continued to pick up more books and explore new genres I’d never read before.

I may not remember all of the things that I’d read, but maybe they’re just somewhere deep in that subconscious, waiting until that near-death Indiana Jones moment to be used ingeniously to save my life. It could happen.