Where Have all the Great Books Gone?

I'm having some focusing issues.

This seems to happen whenever I read an amazing book or, God forbid, multiple amazing books in a row! After reading something brilliant it is so hard to read something that is merely good. And if the book is boring or bad in any way, ugh, that's just the pits.

I've started maybe three books in the last few weeks and, it's not that I want to disparage them, I'm sure they are perfectly fine works, but they aren't amazing. Sans amazingness, I'm finding that I'd rather play Bomboozle on Facebook or stare into space on the subway then take out a book and start reading.

Usually when I read a book I devour it in as few sittings as possible. The characters invade my mind and set up camp, demanding that I think of them and discover all that there is to discover about them in a timely fashion. I'm the girl who walks off the train and up the stairs with eyes still glued to the page and leans against a wall by the exit until I come to the end of the chapter- yesterday I rode the train to the end of the line and back to my stop so I could finish writing the piece I had started (well, it didn't hurt that the train has AC and my apartment does not, but that is not the point right now). The point is, that if I am invested in something I am all in. So it pains me now that I have three quarter-read books littering my home and, despite stacks and stacks of books to be read, no real desire to commit to a new text for fear that it too will suffer from a lack of amazingness. I'm not in the mood to be disappointed again.*

*This is obviously a metaphor for my love life. Analyze as you see fit.