David Sedaris

It irritates me when, by the homeless, people mean themselves.

It should be help one of the homeless, I wanted to say.

Otherwise, it sounds like you're going to take whatever you collect and distribute it to other people in need.

The man saw all of this playing out on my face and barked quite unfairly, in my opinion, I hope you burn in hell.

Which, of course, is another reason to live in New York.

Every day delivers a kick and always in a different spot.

There are times when being condemned to hell really gets under my skin.

Am I a terrible person, I'll ask myself?

Am I crueler than most?

Am I thoughtless?

If I'm cursed by a mentally ill person, I'll really dig in and claw at myself.

I've always seen them as prophets and hold my breath as I pass, afraid of the truth they might reveal.

In my first year in New York, not long after the Little Golden Books episode, a woman dressed in rags at the Staten Island ferry terminal looked me in the eye and told me that I was going to die before I reached 50.

Thousands of people moving about like ants, yet I was the one she singled out.

Her voice was clear and authoritative, like an oracle's.

Our brief encounter really lit a fire under me.

I've only got sixteen years to make a splash, I thought, knowing that time would pass a lot faster than I'd want it to.

When I didn't die at age fifty, when I woke up in Paris as alive as I'd been the day before, I was shocked but also greatly relieved, for my life was good by then, and I didn't want it taken away from me.

This time, though, I walked on by.

Burn in hell indeed, I thought.