Laurel Buys Crypt in New Orleans
February 26, 2008
AP: New Orleans, LA:Unable to shake a particularly toxic period of depression, I have recently purchased a crypt in New Orleans. There are good deals on cemetary plots in the Crescent City, due to water damage and I need to prepare for the inevitable, as do we all. A born performer who does not perform is like a lemming prevented from jumping off a cliff by a brick wall. I have tried every anti-depressant, vitamin, guru, and art form, including the weaving of pot holders. Nothing lifts my spirits except the thought of cabaret performances that lead to the eradication of my audience’s own sadness. My mother’s illness and death, along with the fear of homelessness, threw me off track for a few years, but it seems there are no alternatives to the pursuit of a dream, except a bargain crypt. Your assignment: pursue your dream.
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There is somebody in my house in Vermont. A nice man is renting my house and I am thrilled because that man is renting my house and sending me money so that I can rent an apartment in Providence. Now, wait a minute. Does this make sense? I thought so, a few weeks ago, when I was working here, singing, planning, organizing, hob-knobbing, but as of today, as I lugged a bunch of my crap up two flights of stairs on the East Side, all the while knowing I would have to lug the crap back down the two flights of stairs a few months from now— as of today, I thought to myself, “Gee, I don’t feel very good in my head” I sat on the stairs, dirty stairs, very dirty, and considered my situation. I blamed the town of Bridport , Vermont, for not having a Dunkin Donut’s or a Cafe, a bar or a nightclub, a college, tennis courts, health club, movie theater. Then I blamed myself for wanting those things. Then I blamed myself for having those things here in Providence and not taking advantage of them because I like staying home and reading in bed. Now, if I like staying home and reading in bed, why don’t I just move back to my own home, in Bridport, and wait out the winter with Charles Dickens and Mark Twain? Now that I have rented my house, I miss it. It is not available. That is why I was so sad today, moving into what I thought was a nice apartment on the East Side. It is somebody elses house and always will be, no matter how many knick knacks, rugs, paintings, books, personal items I stuff into it. Renting makes me feel insecure, more insecure than worrying about how to pay my property tax. It’s silly, because none of us own anything fully. Still, sombody is in MY house and i am in somebody else’s house, and it’s ridiculous in a way that I can’t quite comprehend and it is making me very very sad.
I didn’t steal your pills