Theft by Finding: Diaries 1977-2002

by David Sedaris

That’s the thing with a diary, though. In order to record your life, you sort of need to live it. Not at your desk, but beyond it. Out in the world where it’s so beautiful and complex and painful that sometimes you just need to sit down and write about it.

This is a busy week with me and lunatics, whom I tend to see as either signs or messengers.

Jim says that maybe next semester I can teach two classes, but right now that sounds like a nightmare. It would make me eligible for health insurance, which I’ll need after I slit my wrists.

“You farm?” I asked. “Oh, yes, have for decades. My husband and I are tied to the land.” I asked what she farmed and was slightly disappointed when she said, “Christmas trees.” Because, come on, that’s really not the sort of thing that forces you out of bed at five a.m. I could be wrong, but don’t Christmas trees pretty much take care of themselves?

I’d have to double-check, but I’m pretty sure I’ve been drunk every night for the past eighteen years.