I’ve been thinking of reading one of those books. You know, the one that you know will make you smile, cry and connect with life and music in equal parts.

You don’t want to read it as much as you do. It’s going to make you smile, cry and connect with life and music. Odds are good that it might tear you apart a bit.

“Love Is a Mix Tape” is sitting on my lap right now, just starting at me, waiting to be read. I didn’t even have to buy it — Beth picked it up at the library and knew that I’d wanted to read it.

Even Chuck Klosterman’s glowing endorsement is beckoning me from its prominent place on the back cover. “No rock critic — living or dead, American or otherwise — has ever written about pop music with the evocative, hyperpoetic perfectitude of Rob Sheffield.”

PERFECTITUDE. He’s MAKING UP WORDS to describe how good this is. HALLELUJAH.

But there’s a problem: the premise is clearly established in all of the reviews I’ve read. ***SPOILER ALERT*** Renee dies. This is Rob’s story about their relationship, how music plays a part and how he has the music and his memories of Renee after she suddenly dies.

Why do I want to invest myself in a book that creates vivid memories of music and a woman a brilliant writer of a man loved? I’m going to get sucked into her personality and their relationship and then she is going to die. This will make me cry. Why do I want to do this to myself?

Ah, right. There’s a perfectly logical explanation.

I’m a sucker for this type of stuff. Chuck Klosterman recommends it. And I’m probably going to cry the tears that will fall onto the pages of my book as I play Jeff Buckley’s “Last Goodbye,” “Lover, You Should’ve Come Over” or, most heart-wrenching of all, “Lilac Wine.”

Sometimes I hate myself. And Chuck. And Jeff.