to leave the consideration of the self behind

She was into Goth and bloodplay,

walked around in black T-shirts

that said “Wholesale S**t,”

admitted to having a jones for

the Osmonds,

never allowed a man

with a memory

to share her bed.

In high school, she was voted

Most Likely to Underachieve.

In college

she only dated

black guys.

In graduate school

she decided not to

become a registered voter.

Her journals were filled

with entries like:

“The world is my oyster and

it just gave me a bacterial infection,”

and

“Between sex and love,

I would choose nothing.”

Word on the street was that she

behaved admirably in the company

of archbishops and historians

though not so stellar in the presence

of philanthropists and diplomats.

I was in shul the day

she was bat mitzvah-ed

on her 30th birthday.

She wore a black leather yarmulke,

a cape covered with little

sequined Star of Davids’,

accompanied by a goth metal band

during the reading of her haftorah.

On the day of her funeral,

we all played hooky at work,

walked around barefoot,

smoked strawberry-flavored bidis and

lactuca virosa,

got snookered on absinthe and

behaved as if we were

in the company

of philanthropists and diplomats.

But we all agreed

that when she made

the covers of

Time and Newsweek

the following week

that she had had

had too many dates

with strangers and not

enough bloodplay

with archbishops and historians.