You Smell Like Death

 

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Well, maybe you don’t now. But you could.*

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Our friends recently joked that their impression of my husband and me is a conversation that goes something like this:

Friends: So, what are you guys up to?
Us: Yeah, it’s kind of a bummer. We’re on our way to another funeral.
Friends: Wow, you guys have been to a lot of funerals this year. Who died?
Us: We’re not sure. We just like going to these things.

We don’t go around crashing random funerals. But I think we’re up to 6 in this last 12-month period. People have just got to stop dying…

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I recently stopped by my local Duane Reade, and did a double take as I walked by this table  in the cosmetics aisle. Maybe it’s me, but I took this picture because I thought it couldn’t possibly be real. I know this is Williamsburg, Brooklyn, epicenter of all things cool,  where irony and hipsterdom are are soul-sucking distractions to a life well-lived.

Not that I’m bitter, or anything.

The takeaway from all this: In lieu of having another funeral to attend in the next few days (slow week), It seems, I can take the funeral with me.

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* [These photos were taken by me] I’m not sure what “Paperback” smells like, but I bet that’s more my speed than “Funeral Home.” As proof, I offer some photos of one of my favorite places in the world: Pickwick Book Shop in Nyack, NY:

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