in cold bloodsausage

My roommates and I recently started a book-club. A booze & brownie-soaked affair/excuse to get together and sound off smartly on books we not-so-smartly ditched out on reading for some reason, some way along the literary line.

Our first selection is In Cold Blood by Truman Capote. A true tale of a heinous crime committed (get this) in cold blood.

It's a serious story, and seriously frightening. It's the first book in a while that raised hair on the back of my neck even though I thought I had it pegged, handled, etc. And the first book in a while that's kept me up till 4 in the morning, wide-eyed and sick-stomached, thankful for the little glimmers of goodness that shoot through the bloody, brutal fabric of the story.

We do keep asking each other how the "muuuuuuuurrrrrder mystery" is going. Making ghostly howls in jest. Waggling our fingers like so mancy mincing ghosts out to fix you a cocktail.

But at the end of the night, curled up in our beds with this undeniable proof that people are cold and warm at once or else supremely cold, the goofy can't hold candles to the true.