Or, maybe, yesteryear; I can’t be sure. Its trappings survive. Take Leah: Camus and black. But the essence perished, and what killed it was the normalization of the absurd. I must be behind the times, or, maybe, unbeknownst to me, I’m stuck in some crucial stage of the grieving process. I’m working on it, though. I’ve practiced the sentence until I can get it out fine. All I can’t do is utter it with a straight face. “Hi, I’m Holly,” I say, “and this is my swine, Luigi.”Not that I have anything against pigs—or against any of the other pitifully inadequate dog substitutes with which the spiritually impoverished attempt to enrich their bleak, allergic lives. On the contrary, I’ve always been a fan of the theater of the absurd, and if you doubt me, consider the angst that’s plagued me ever since a neighbor of mine, Frank, acquired Leo, a Vietnamese potbellied pig. Not that there’s anything wrong with Leo. Far from it. He’s hideous, and his hoofs require rather frequent trimming, but he’s perfectly friendly.
