Vonnegut died. I don’t really want to talk about it.
One day during freshman year of high school, I skipped class and hid in the library. I stumbled across “Welcome to the Monkey House”, curled up in a corner against the brick wall under the stairs, and read the whole thing. It made me want to be a writer.
I cried when I heard that he died. I cried for a long time. Then I came into work and saw his picture on my bulletin board. He’s smirking.
“Maturity is a bitter disappointment for which no remedy exists, unless laughter can be said to remedy anything.”
– Kurt Vonnegut, 1922- ____.
That’s what it says underneath his picture, and that’s what I’ve looked at every day for two years and felt for ten more, and today I had to fill in the blank and then I cried again.
If you read this blog and you like it, thank Vonnegut. Also: every time I have ever written “also:” in a blog (which is every blog), it’s because I read it in “Slapstick” once and it cracked me up, and now it’s a habit.
I’ll miss you, Mr. Vonnegut. But I’ll see you tonight on my nightstand, and I can do that forever if I want to. I think that’s nice nice, very nice.