He Looked As Though His Life Had

He Looked As Though His Life Had Not Only Passed Him By But Paused Along The Way To Spit In His Face.

I Don't Really Do Very Well When I'm Sent Somewhere. A Lot Of Magazines Want To Send You Somewhere To Do Something. They Want You To Stow Away On A Ship, Or Something Like That.

Even As A Child I Was Fascinated By Death, Not In A Spiritual Sense, But In An Aesthetic One. A Hamster Or Guinea Pig Would Pass Away, And, After Burying The Body, I'd Dig It Back Up: Over And Over, Until All That Remained Was A Shoddy Pelt. It Earned Me A Certain Reputation, Especially When I Moved On To Other People's Pets. "igor," They Called Me. "wicked, Spooky." But I Think My Interest Was Actually Fairly Common, At Least Among Adolescent Boys. At That Age, Death Is Something That Happens Only To Animals And Grandparents, And Studying It Is Like A Science Project.

Oh, For Christ's Sake,' I Hear. 'can We Please Just Try To Have A Good Time?' This Is Like Ordering Someone To Find You Attractive, And It Doesn't Work. I've Tried It.

Some Friendships Are Formed By A Commonality Of Interests And Ideas: You Both Love Judo Or Camping Or Making Your Own Sausage. Other Friendships Are Forged In Alliance Against A Common Enemy.