When I asked Sedaris himself why he did this, he seemed aghast.
As soon as the last word of my story’s punchline left my lips, David Sedaris erupted in a fit of laughter. Eyelids clenched, mouth agape, he cackled at the ceiling of the posh lobby abutting the colossal hall where he had just performed a near-sold-out show.
You’re never safe around a writer, they say. The digital age exacerbates the hazards of this adage, where every living breath seems captive and commodified online. But Sedaris has been at this since before the internet, siphoning up experiences . Another used a peppercorn grinder, and yet another a lightbulb.
On cue, I proceeded to recount being around 12, with my anal insert of choice differing from every other hapless adult protagonist of his collection. You see, when I was 12, frozen hot dogs were a household favorite all to myself. And what else was an anal-curious kid to do? I couldn’t exactly go to an adult sex store or wait for my birthday to ask my parents for a dildo as a gift.“It wasn’t pleasant,” I said, conceding his point.
She’s afraid to tell me anything important, knowing I’ll only turn around and write about it. In my mind, I’m like a friendly junkman, building things from the little pieces of scrap I find here and there, but my family’s started to see things differently. Their personal lives are the so-called pieces of scrap I so casually pick up, and they’re sick of it. Our conversations now start with the words, “You have to swear you will never repeat this.