The truth is what the truth does, the truth is what the truth needs, the truth is what the truth is not, and if that doesn’t boggle your brain than it’s not the truth. Rejoice in a boggled brain then, and learn to love chaos. Why should chaos be any less admirable than order? Embrace each and stop trying to make one out of the other. Go to bed with order and wake up with chaos, go to bed with chaos and wake up with order. What the heck? That’s what I always say. I’ll take a quarter pound of chaos with a quarter pound of order on rye hold the mayo to go. Yes, I’ll have a pickle too. Why not? What? Six ninety five? That’s outrageous! Yea, yeah, yeah. I know all about inflation. Save your breath and keep the change. Maybe I should have got the life and death special. Buy one and get the other for nothing. Hmmm. Throw in a few chips and it wouldn’t be a bad deal. Oh well, there’s always the next time.

The chaos was tender and the order was strong and aromatic, just the way I like it. I sat on the park bench eating my lunch with joy and gusto, glad that I had chosen order and chaos over the life and death special. Whenever they’re running a special on something, you can be sure it’s for their own benefit. The life was probably on its way out, a bit rancid, or maybe the death was growing mold and had to be shaved down to look presentable, edible. I was never crazy about death anyway, it always gave me indigestion. No matter how they cooked it; boiled or baked, fried or fricasseed, deviled or hashed, creamed or barbecued, no matter what they did to the stuff or how they served it up, it never agreed with me. I couldn’t get it past my nose when I was a child and they forced me to eat it as they sometimes did, I inevitably wound up running to the bathroom to vomit.

Whenever my mother cooked life, she cooked death along with it and I was expected to eat a little of each the way everyone else did. I loved life. There was nothing I loved better. I could have eaten the whole platter and still have had room for more. It was so sweet. It was so tender. I gobbled it up like there was no tomorrow. And when I asked for a second helping, or worse yet, when I reached across the table to grab another piece, I would have my hand slapped by mother and father would start in on his lecture.

“Everybody likes life, but you have to have a little death along with it. Blah, blah, blah. You can’t just eat life all the time, it’s not good for you all by itself. Now, eat your death like a good little girl and help your mother with the dishes. Blah, blah, blah. See how I eat death. Umm, it’s good. Try a little. You have to develop a taste for it, that’s all. Blah, blah, blah. I didn’t like death when I was your age, but my mother and father made me eat it and today I’m glad they did. Why, I’m even beginning to like death better than life. Blah, blah, blah. You have to train you palate, acquire a taste for things. I’m only telling you this for your own good. If you want to grow up strong and health, you’ve got to eat your death. Blah, blah, blah. Rabbits eat death. That’s why they have such good eyes. You want to have curly hair like me? Then, eat your death. Come on now, it’s not going to kill you. Look how your brother eats death. He’s on his second helping.”

“I use ketchup,” my brother said, “it don’t taste so rotten when you put ketchup on it.”