Calypso

by David Sedaris

How long has that been in there? I wondered. It’s scary the things that come out when you’re mad at someone.

Obviously we have some hole we’re trying to fill, but doesn’t everyone? And isn’t filling it with berets the size of toilet-seat covers, if not more practical, then at least healthier than filling it with frosting or heroin or unsafe sex with strangers?

“Have a blessed day.” This can make you feel like you’ve been sprayed against your will with God cologne. “Get it off me!” I always want to scream. “Quick, before I start wearing ties with short-sleeved shirts!”

I felt betrayed, the way you do when you discover that your cat has a secret secondary life and is being fed by neighbors who call him something stupid like Calypso.

if I weren’t so concerned about, for example, meeting my daily Fitbit goal, I’d realize there’s a six-hundred-year-old milkmaid living in our silverware drawer.

Hundred Most Haunted Hotels and B&Bs in America, none of which is named the Scarriott for some reason.

I’m not alone. I’ve got Cher.

“Must be mentally and physically ill at the same time.”

My stomach didn’t ache, exactly. Rather, it let its presence be known.

You have to draw the line somewhere, though, and with me it’s my anus.

I met a Bulgarian. “In my country, you say to someone you hate, ‘May you build a house from your kidney stones.’”