[b]David Sedaris
I think about death all the time, but only in a romantic, self-serving way, beginning, most often, with my tragic illness and ending with my funeral. I see my brother squatting beside my grave, so racked by guilt that he’s unable to stand. “If only I’d paid him back that twenty-five thousand dollars I borrowed,” he says. I see Hugh, drying his eyes on the sleeve of his suit jacket, then crying even harder when he remembers I bought it for him.[/b]
They can just throw me in a dumpster.
Drawing attention to Gretchen’s weight was the sort of behavior my mother referred to as ‘stirring the turd,’ and I did it a lot that summer.
So, what’s the equivalent of doing that here? With the Kids I mean.
The word ‘phobic’ has its place when properly used, but lately it’s been declawed by the pompous insistence that most animosity is based upon fear rather than good old-fashioned loathing.
They’d never fool me.
Everyone had taken their places, when I excused myself to visit the bathroom, and there, in the toilet, was the absolute biggest turd I have ever seen in my life - no toilet paper or anything, just this long and coiled specimen, as thick as a burrito.
Come on, was that absolutely necessary?
Like most seasoned phonies, I roundly suspect that everyone is as disingenuous as I am.
In other words, even if they don’t know it.
If you don’t want to marry a homosexual, then don’t. But what gives you the right to weigh in on your neighbor’s options? It’s like voting on whether or not redheads should be allowed to celebrate Christmas.
Not really though, right?