Much to my doom-and-gloom-loving husband’s chagrin, I am generally a happy person. You know what I mean: I have to be dragged to many Oscar-buzz movies, most of which seem to be set in concentration camps or their equivalent. (I prefer the crazy antics of Will Ferrell and anything with the words “hilarity ensues” in the plot description.) You can often find me whistling while I work. I think those “I Haz Cheezburger” cats are cute. Et cetera.
But recently I’ve been looking on the dark side of life… and it’s all Jamaica Kincaid’s fault.