I’m packing tonight. About 20 minutes ago I look down at the books I’m taking for the train ride, and it abruptly hits me that the three authors I’ve put in my bag are David Sedaris, Oscar Wilde, and Edmund White.
Accompanying this realization, a vision: I’m sitting on the train, weighing all of 37 pounds, sporting a polo shirt (white with red stripes, oh yeah), munching on a rice cake (I like the kind with flaxseed), with a stack of books by three of the most major faggot writers in all of the English language at my litte faggot side.
Aghast, I throw a(n already read) copy of Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas in the suitcase. Because those AmTrak people are going to think I’m a walking sterotype over my dead 37-pound body.