At Least They're Committed

Oh, do let’s not read another book about dying or near fatal health conditions. Cripe. I now realize that it’s unfortunate the books that were available to choose from as I prepared for this latest journey were all from the seventies. And come to think of it, maybe they’re not so classic as I thought. Maybe seeing them on the shelves of the ranch house these past decades has elevated them to unwarranted distinction. Great Grandma Alta died in the early 80s, so that’s where her library stopped.

The Other Room looked promising, like a hidden place filled with mystery, skeletons and deeply buried family secrets. It wasn’t. Just teen angst and another dead dad. It was rather like A Day No Pigs Would Die, except the pigs in this one died anyway.

Geez, the seventies were sappy. The music was no exception. Seasons in the Sun? Gag! Alone Again . . . Naturally? Go ahead and jump. Feelings? Ew! All By Myself? No wonder! And of course, Shannon. Dogs die. It sucks. Get over it. Nothing worse than a sappy-ass man song — then or now. Thank God for Queen, America and Carole King, among others.

Where was I? Oh, yes. I shall choose my novel subject more wisely tomorrow and once again steer clear of the sordid murder/romance books. Aren’t you proud? Feel free to text me a suggestion or two. This time, however, please keep in mind that I prefer at least one imperfect-yet-likable character. Maybe someone like you! Heh. It’s bedtime. Sweet dreams.