I
still remember the very moment when I became a Grim Reaper.
It was this past Thursday, November 5, at
8:45 PM, to be maybe more exact than is necessary. I had just run three miles
and I was lying in my van in the Rice Stadium parking lot with my legs hanging
out the back door, and I was listening to Jenny Hval’s Apocalypse, Girl, which was my favorite album in the whole world
back in those days.
And all I wanted to do at that moment was to
lie there and chill, listening to Jenny sing about Heaven and about wires and
cunts, but my friend, Aesop, was in the front seat, smoking a joint and
worrying about my dating life.
“I’m
worried about your dating life,” he said.
“Don’t
be,”
I said. “I’m not.”
I wasn’t.
