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Joy | Jul 07 2003

The ice cream truck cometh. There, hear its maddening melody, as rude and relentless as a roomful of telemarketers. Fortunately I have steeled myself this time, thanks to reader E.P. Johnson, who read my piece Song and emailed the following story:

One summer, living in a particularly depressed urban area, the ice cream truck nearly drove me insane. It had a particularly “jack-in-the box” sound to it, in which each note seemed to struggle to break free. When it would come by, I found myself humming along with its irritatingly irresistible melody. In time, I “discovered” the words to the song. Next time your truck comes by, try singing along:

If ever I was to kill myself, today would be the day to
If ever I was to kill myself, today would be the day
To stab myself, to shoot myself, to drown myself in the bathtub
To cut my wrists, eat arsenic, to throw myself from the window…

And now I have sung, loudly and with feeling, reading the lyrics from the page taped next to my computer.

Joy is possible.