Did you hear that horrible story about the (child-aged person) who was (past tense verb) by the (anything here, really)? This is my Misery Pørn Mad Libs, a stab at being funny when there is little to find ha ha. The thing is, I think I am addicted to stories of terrible things that go bump in the light. Take the Huffington Post, for example. In the morning I read the headlines on my phone while on the bus: titles about GOP fundraisers, Dem Polls, the Human Cost of Drones and bugs found with the iPhone 5S. I do not open any of these stories, scanning instead until I find something about a mom who killed her baby and cooked it. I hesitate for a second before clicking, but I do and then I read it and feel absolutely sick with oh god, fuck no, why.
(Last week a local 12 year old girl was hit by a car and died. And every day since then I read the same article in the paper with very little updates. She was riding her bike home. They do not suspect alcohol was involved. The same photos of a white dented Suburban and a pile of stuffed animals on the street corner.)
This is the way the world works. Tragedy mistaken for profundity. All of us so close to being written about as a (insert age) year old woman and her (insert age) year old child. Keep it far away, I think, not me, the musical chairs of it all unsettling enough that I download Jaycee Dugard's book, A Stolen Life, curious and thin with fear.