Met Ingrid and Celia and Bethany for book club this evening at Borders. Celia had choosen one of my favorite writers,
David Sedaris. We read
When You Are Engulfed in Flames and, though I hate to write use this term, many of his essays caused me to "lol." Here's an essay by him that I like; it's called "
Memento Mori." It's probably bad that I think like him. I understand his morbid streak and, in this particular piece, he writes about how buying this skeleton for his boyfriend makes him keep thinking, "You are going to die...You are going to die..." That phrase echoes around in my head in some form or another pretty much every day. It's why I keep my house neat and clean when I leave. Just in case I die, I want to present myself as a somewhat neat person who doesn't live in disarray (if you discount the ants, those tiny little black creatures I don't mind killing with my fingers. They are resilient. I've tried everything. Well, two things. Ant traps and Raid. I woke up yesterday morning to find that they had found their way to the box of Corn Pops I'd stashed on top of the refrigerator. A neat little black line of ants, diligently making their way into the box in a very organized fashion. I threw the box outside and sprayed. They have disappeared for now, but I fully expect to find them swimming in my coffee cup tomorrow morning). While walking to the subway, I wonder if today will be the day that I have my i-pod turned up too loud, am singing along to some Rilo Kiley song, step into the street without looking both ways, and am smashed by a wayward garbage truck. Or I might be over anxious about catching the train and accidentally step forward before it arrives. Or pet a dog with rabies. The possibilities are endless.
Met Ingrid and Celia and Bethany for book club this evening at Borders. Celia had choosen one of my favorite writers, David Sedaris. We read When You Are Engulfed in Flames and, though I hate to write use this term, many of his essays caused me to "lol." Here's an essay by him that I like; it's called "Memento Mori." It's probably bad that I think like him. I understand his morbid streak and, in this particular piece, he writes about how buying this skeleton for his boyfriend makes him keep thinking, "You are going to die...You are going to die..." That phrase echoes around in my head in some form or another pretty much every day. It's why I keep my house neat and clean when I leave. Just in case I die, I want to present myself as a somewhat neat person who doesn't live in disarray (if you discount the ants, those tiny little black creatures I don't mind killing with my fingers. They are resilient. I've tried everything. Well, two things. Ant traps and Raid. I woke up yesterday morning to find that they had found their way to the box of Corn Pops I'd stashed on top of the refrigerator. A neat little black line of ants, diligently making their way into the box in a very organized fashion. I threw the box outside and sprayed. They have disappeared for now, but I fully expect to find them swimming in my coffee cup tomorrow morning). While walking to the subway, I wonder if today will be the day that I have my i-pod turned up too loud, am singing along to some Rilo Kiley song, step into the street without looking both ways, and am smashed by a wayward garbage truck. Or I might be over anxious about catching the train and accidentally step forward before it arrives. Or pet a dog with rabies. The possibilities are endless.
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