David Means wrote this insult with ink made from orphan tears
I bought two copies of Means’ new collection of short stories, The Spot. One for him to sign, the other to leave in the Kids’ section of my local library, looking innocuous if inconspicuous, its cover lacking the cheerful collection of primary colors and anthropomorphic animals one normally finds in the Children section of the local library. Ready to permanently scar some unsuspecting Eager Beaver Reader into wanting to become a short story author.
But no, I’d never do that. As far as I know.
Mr. Means’ stories should be force-fed to the Ritzi in your life, those unwaveringly cheerful fellows who seem hell-bent on ripping off the top of your cozy bout of depression to expose the naked little selfishness underneath like those smug bastard morning people taking sadistic joy in tearing the covers off an REMing late-waker. Who never give a moment’s respite from seizing each and every moment, carpe dieming all over your carpet, those incontinent labradors, dumb and happy and panting with pleasure.
Not because it’s dark, really. Because it feels like truth, dark or light, and because more people in general need to read David Means.