Today would have been Kurt Vonnegut’s  89^th birthday. This guy meant a hell of a lot to me. I took his death pretty hard and his work has an important place in my mind, heart and life.

I remember the day that Kurt Vonnegut died. I worked two jobs. I worked by day at a Barnes & Noble College Bookstore as a bookkeeper (not keeper of books but keeper of financial information) and I worked evenings as grill master at a local semi-fast food joint. After my shift at B&N, I headed out to my dad’s because he had just fixed my car. I had been driving his and he was ready to swap. I got my car back and headed home to grab my uniform. I stopped by Circle K to grab a pop and a bag of Doritos. As I pulled out of Circle K, a huge pick-up truck practically drove right through me. The whole front end of my car came off and landed 20 feet away. My car was bleeding anti-freeze all over the road. I ended up getting a ticket but that was the least of my worries. I had to call off work, have my car towed to my dad’s house and find a friend to pick me up. My friend came and got me. I got in the car and he said, “I have bad news”. Really? Could it get worse than I-just-got-my-car-back-an-hour-ago-and-already –wrecked-it? Could it? My friend hesitated and said, “Kurt Vonnegut died. Complications due to a fall down the stairs”. Holy fucking Christ almighty, balls, fuck me! No. No. No. The greatest writer of the 20^thcentury died and my car got fucked every which way but good.

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