until I became a small hill

| On
Monday, June 24, 2013

Shit, I thought, as I stared up at the cloudless blue sky and then blocked out the bright sun with my hand. I couldn't face anything, especially not a balmy April day, not right now. Shit shit shit shit shit. Until that moment I'd never considered how useful the word "shit" was; if I could just keep repeating "shit" for the rest of my life, as a single run-on sentence, I'd be fine. I'd be safe. I'd just lie on the ground and get covered by the seasons, by the rotting leaves and the frozen drifts and the year-round grit, until I became a small hill, a part of the landscape which only the occasional drunken vagrant would overhear mumbling "Shit shit shit shit shit...." 

from Gorgeous by Paul Rudnick, which I loved.

More on this SHORTLY. In an attempt to get myself back to this blog, I think I might post a little quote from each book as I finish it. (going forward, anyway.)

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