Sometimes People Die

Because The Cold has suddenly morphed into something much more sinister, and because said sinister sickness has a severe sucking effect on my ability to craft cleverly creative posts (although it apparently has no impact on my annoying alliteration), I'm just going to give you a conversation that I heard a few weeks ago in American Literature:

C: (slow, 9:15 a.m. voice) "So last night, I had just gotten done reading Grass (Carl Sandburg), and I found out my Grandma died."
T: (stupidly, because how do you react to such news?) "Really? Oh I'm sorry!"
C: "It's okay...sometimes people die."

Sometimes people die.

Sometimes people die of trifling colds that have them prostrate with fever one day and shaking with coughs the next. Sometimes people die of endlessly blogging instead of studying for American Lit tests they have tomorrow. Or German tests they have tomorrow as well. Sometimes people die of excitement for Spring Break, or of delight found in a certain Plathy book, or even of hyperbole. Sometimes people die from holding grudges too long (I think they explode), or from indecision regarding what to give up for Lent. Sometimes people die of curiosity about death (or do they really die from the irony of it all?). Sometimes people die when vengeful blog readers get fed up with absurdly awesome alliteration.

It happens.