[b]David Sedaris
I can’t promise I’ll never kill anyone again, he once said, strapping a refrigerator to his back. It’s unrealistic to live your life within such strict parameters.[/b]
That’s probably the refrigerator talking.
When her muzzle grew more white than brown, the chipmunk forgot that she and the squirrel had had nothing to talk about. She forgot the definition of “jazz” as well and came to think of it as every beautiful thing she had ever failed to appreciate: the taste of warm rain; the smell of a baby; the din of a swollen river, rushing past her tree and onward to infinity.
Let’s take this to its logical conclusion.
It make one’s mouth hurt to speak with such forced merriment.
And then to the assholes who force you to.
He die one day, and then he go above of my head to live with your father.
He weared the long hair, and after he died, the first day he come back here for to say hello to the peoples.
He nice, the Jesus.
The fractured English Jesus.
I don’t know how these couples do it, spend hours each night tucking their kids in, reading them books about misguided kittens or seals who wear uniforms, and then reread them if the child so orders. In my house, our parents put us to bed with two simple words: “Shut up.” That was always the last thing we heard before our lights were turned off. Our artwork did not hang on the refrigerator or anywhere near it, because our parents recognized it for what it was: crap. They did not live in a child’s house, we lived in theirs.
Next think you know they’re serial killers.
As I searched the atlas for somewhere to run to, Hugh made a case for his old stomping grounds. His first suggestion was Beirut, where he went to nursery school. His family left there in the midsixties and moved to the Congo. After that, it was Ethiopia, and then Somalia, all fine places in his opinion.
Let’s save Africa and the Middle East for when I decide to quit living, I said.
Let’s decide if this is racist.