I am in the memoir section of a Manhattan bookstore, and I’m snowballing. Bookstores have suddenly become like pot to me, which sounds like an endorsement but is not. I approach them both hoping for insight and inspiration, but these days all I’m left with afterwards is a lingering depression and a funky taste in my mouth. At least with pot I’ve had some Pringles….
The memoir section in this store is enormous. Can this many lives be interesting? Did they even have a memoir section ten years ago? I suddenly feel like the guy getting a tattoo now, five years after the trend has died out. “Check it out, Dude — an eagle!”