Home Land

"A sorcerer?" said Gwendolyn, one of the few times I told her this tale. "Just because she ate your candy bar? My mom guzzled rye and beat us. My uncle put his dick in my armpit while I slept. My cousin hid my college acceptance letter until it was too late to reply. Your mother ate your candy bar?"
"It's symbolic."
"That's what people say when they know they've come with the weak shit."
"Fuck you," I said.
"Excuse me?"
"I said Fuck you," I said. "I've been meaning to say it for a long time. I just couldn't find the right words."
Yes, this exchange occurred during a particularly frenzied juncture in our unraveling, but I always thought Gwendolyn missed the point of my story. The candy bar incident, aside from its obvious revelations regarding my character, or the deformation thereof, imparts a tremendous lesson about life's treats in general: munch immediately! Maybe that could be a chapter in the self-help book I've been meaning to write, The Seven Habits of Highly Disappointed People, which I could probably bang out in an afternoon if I weren't so busy updating you fine people on the latest in the life of me.

Sam Lipsyte, 2004