This is an examination of extraordinary ordinary life. It is your life. Read it, you might find it interesting.
James Olgivy committed suicide about a month ago. Not the James Olgivy, an unfortunate namesake really. Not too many people actually know the James Olgivy, but he has a wikipedia page and that seemed to be just enough to create awkward situations for my James. My James is not—was not—the uber wealthy founder and publisher of the pretentious yet appropriately named Luxury Briefing magazine. My James was a professor in a dying field: Medieval Literature. A dying field for a slowly dying man. That’s what he described his depression as once. A slow torturous death. You knew you were dying, it was happening slowly and you simply couldn’t run away from it fast enough. You couldn’t ignore it. It stared at you in the face from the moment you woke up until the moment you fell asleep. And if you were lucky it didn’t invade your dreams. Sleep was his only escape, thus the sleeping pills, and I suppose thus the overdose of them with a sufficient amount of that ancient sleep aid, scotch. I imagine he just decided he wanted to sleep forever, never get up again. Never have to face his impending, torturous death. Yes, he did in the end, but on his own terms and for that I don’t begrudge him. I just wish he had asked me to come along.