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J Diego Frey - Denver, CO (USA):

April 23, 2001:
This book, a story of courage and humilty, takes place inside a
    septic tank in Poland.
This book found me drunk one night and had sex with me
    in the bathtub.
This book, much like the bacon and butter lettuce sandwich which accompanied
    it, was chewed, digested, and later excreted in the tastefully decorated home
    of a Romanian expatriate socialite friend of mine.
This book is red and brown like a fine potato.
This book tells the story of someone who changed their mind.
This book encourage me to call a friend with whom I hadn't
    spoke for fourteen years, ever since he had made fun of me
    on my wedding day. He was right about the marriage; the
    book was wrong about calling him (still a swaggering b-hole).
This book threw itself at me.

April 25, 2001:
This book kept me awake, late into the night in a French
    chateau, terrified that primitive vampires were going to leap out of the
    antique mirror onto my bed.
This book was not written by a committee, rather a group of
    like-minded, non-gender-specific co-workers.
This book smelled of good ideas, like my dog smells like grass.
This book was better as a movie of another book.
This book got me into the state university, but fradulently, as I'd
    only read the back cover.

April 27, 2001:
This book, like so many books before it, was printed in haste
    and read under duress.
The book got off the train 2 stops before I did.
    I was forced to read misspelled graffiti all the way to the
    Joyce St. Station.
The edition in which they corrected the index was the finest for
    this book.
This book chewed up a century's worth of Western literary tropes and
    upchucked it all over my desert boots.
I never met a book that wasn't about a book.