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day, every moment, every thought, every person, every creation, and every thing important to each individual from day to day to day to death, so that everyone will have their memories and their life story written down, to live eternally after department.  But only two copies were to be made.  One is sewn into the stomach of the deceased and the other is for the public to read.
    A Gravestone is not just a stone with a name and a date to another date anymore.  It now has a little waterproof/airproof drawer inside that contains the autobiography of the person buried beneath.  And ever since I was a child, I’ve been going to the cemetery and reading the lives of the dead.  And every time I read about someone, that someone becomes alive again.
    Not too many people care to read history books anymore.  Nobody even cares to write them; even I have given them up due to my acid ocean eyes.  I still go to the cemetery and look at the pictures and titles, but it’s disappointing to know that I can’t read them entirely.
    They don’t let you steal the history books.  It’s very important that you don’t, for history’s sake.  But they don’t have any security guards to stop you, only the gatekeeper, and he doesn’t really care.  Still, I’ve never heard of anyone stealing a history book besides myself.
    I stole The Story of Richard Stein .
    It was such a great history that I had to keep it.  But I still had respect for the readers of the books of the dead, especially the readers of Richard Stein, so I didn’t take the book on display.  I thief-slithered onto his grave one night and dug that old corpse up.  I stab-cut into his gut with some pizza shears – which was quite the ass painting – and filched the book resting inside.  It’s just as good, but it has a rotten Richard Stein smell on it.  It’s the only book that I try to read other than comics.  But I already know the majority of it by heart.
    His words       are called wisdom by the critics on the back cover. 

    Richard Stein has taught me much about the world we live in.  His book is my bible.  Well, something had to be.  The real bible is very boring, being on the level of a bad coffee table magazine.  Not that I hate everything the bible says. Personally, I agree with most of the biblical messages, I guess, but I just think the writers weren’t any good.  Matthew and Mark were okay, but Luke and some others told as drome a story as a ten-hundred-page book about dentistry.  (Just in case you didn’t know, drome means boring and droll means interesting, so you don’t get confused.)
    The Richard Stein Bible is more like a guide to being alive than it is the story of his life.  It doesn’t seem like his story at all, actually, because he wrote it in the third person, which is one reason why I decided to read his book instead of all the other histories.  It is next to impossible to read every history book in the cemetery, not to mention it’s not worth reading them all since many people live very drome lifestyles.  So I had to judge the whole book on reading the first paragraph, hoping it would be an interesting attention-grabber.
    Richard Stein’s first paragraph was:
    "The main thing that keeps the gun away from your head is thirteen hundred bottles of bourbon, eight hundred bottles of vodka, three hundred bottles of gin, two thousand bottles of rum, six cups of everclear, and four hundred twenty-two bottles of southern comfort during the course of a lifetime; but any more than that and you’ll be considered an alcoholic.  Richard Stein was considered an alcoholic."

    Nan is in the round-a-go crowd with a chunky blue-haired woman named Liz, who says she has sex with small mammals.  They are at a table, sitting on milk crates, sitting with two Harvey Wallbangers and two walrus-shaped skinhead guys who are trying to take both girls home with them, thinking their red suspenders are attractive enough to surpass walrus-shaped