Ah, two days off.
Give me a beer or a cup of coffee, a pack of cigarettes and a good book, and I'm content with hours of accomplishing nothing, over and over, until huge chunks of time become history. The trouble this weekend is the book I'm reading. It's a collection of very short stories, easily swallowed, like snack food, and the author is an excellent writer, but WTF!
Here, we have a story of a woman who was born in a grave and dug up 15 months after her mother was buried as the infant sat on the corpse and fed on worms.
Then, there's a guy in the business of selling ghosts because having a ghost in your house has become very fashionable. The only way to capture a ghost, though, is to get your head stuck in a bucket of water in the presence of the ghost, then, in the split-second when you're about to suck in your drowning breath, you pull your head out and inhale the ghost. Woe to you if you capture a particularly nasty ghost.
Then, there's a pill to remove romantic love from your heart--to ease the pain of a loss. Trouble is, you'll never love again.
Then, a guy rips out Goofy's guts (yes, that Goofy) and occupies his body.
The author typically jumps into the middle of a story and fills you in later, and the tales are replete with sudden murder and suicide. I kept reading because the stories are very short, the writing is very good and I kept looking for the answer to the question, WTF? which I never found.
The book is Dirt Baby and other Small Mercies by Stuart Millard.