This Would Make a Great Story
June 28, 2012 § 30 Comments
Here is one of my favorite true stories: Police found a drunken man in the road, trying to give mouth to mouth resuscitation to a dead possum. This story combines my three greatest weaknesses when it comes to men: Animal lovers, drunks, and idiots.
When I notice a good story I take the same alert posture my mother has when she is fishing and she gets a bite.
Somewhere I might be part of a story I don’t even know about.
Blue is a story. Mix it with red, you get another story. Green dives in too, that story takes an ugly turn.
Sometimes people enter your story uninvited and take part of it from you. Like how those birds ate the bread crumbs Hansel and Gretel scattered on the ground.
Speaking of, when you have the awesome idea of making your house out of cake and you actually pull it off and then you discover a couple of brats eating it, the oven is not a bad place for them.
My father was a story. Maybe somewhere he still is.
I had a friend who would dream her boyfriend was mean to her and the next day she would make him pay for how he treated her in her dream.
One time I was telling two friends a story, and they said, that’s sad. And I said, no, it’s funny. And they said no it’s sad. And I wanted to say, it’s all right. It’s about me.
Some stories I can’t watch, I can’t read, I can’t listen to.
A hunter may have killed Bambi’s mother, but a writer put him up to it.
When the world goes dark, I hope they use the last match to read the last story.
One time my friend warned me not to do something potentially stupid (long story) and I told her: “I don’t care if I die. This is the best story ever.” And I realized that maybe someday I would die for a story, covering it with my body like a mother covers her baby during a grizzly bear attack.
He and I were a story once but looking back, I don’t think I brought the right nouns.
Unbearable stories should have their own island, far away from dogs and good people.
There’s a horse in my head who writes, and this horse is named Clyde, and he loves a good story so much that I will run to his barn to tell it, even though he already knows.
And this is how I want to die, in the middle of a story so good I start running to the barn and shouting, Clyde you will never guess what hap