I Love Dead Things.

ef·flu·vi·um (ĭ-flōō'vē-əm) n. pl. ef·flu·vi·a (-vē-ə) or ef·flu·vi·ums
1. A usually invisible emanation or exhalation, as of vapor or gas.
2. a) A byproduct or residue; waste.
b) The odorous fumes given off by waste or decaying matter.
3. An impalpable emanation; an aura.

nec·ro·phil·i·a (něk'rə-fĭl'ē-ə) n.
1. Obsessive fascination with death and corpses.
2. Erotic attraction to or sexual contact with corpses.

No results found for necroamicus.
Did you mean keramics (in dictionary) or Necromanis (in encyclopedia)?

Poompy says I collect effluvia. But that isn't really right. I don't collect invisible emanations or vapors or odorous fumes. That's what he does, sure, but only when he eats too much dairy.

I collect dead things. I have just spent the last twenty minutes doing an online search to try to find out if there is a name for what I do, something along the lines of "necroamicus" ("necro" being Latin for "dead" and "amicus" being Latin for "friend") but that doesn't seem to exist. I am certainly not a necropheliac even though one could call my fascination with dead things a little bit obsessive. Sure I might be obsessed with dead things, BUT I DO NOT HAVE SEX WITH THEM. YOU SICKO.

The night before we left for Gettysburg, I found a newly dead baby bird on the sidewalk. Poompy and I were walking to Jen's apartment to drop Theo off for the next couple of days (the Bitch was staying with our friend Stef) when I found the little gem. This bird was so perfect and so beautiful. It's little body wasn't even cold yet. I crouched on the sidewalk, Poompy waiting impatiently behind me, admiring this perfect specimen and bashing myself for having left my camera at home. Again. And since I couldn't take a photo of the bird, I decided to take the bird home with me and take a photo of it there. So I used a poop bag and carefully picked up my little treasure and that was that.

We arrived at Jen's apartment and got Theo all situated and chatted for a little while and then went home. And it wasn't until I walked in my front door that I realized I'd left my bird on Jen's kitchen counter. YOU CANNOT IMAGINE THE CRUSHING DISAPPOINTMENT. I picked up my phone.

"Hi, Jen? It's Frosty."
"Is this about the dead bird you left on my kitchen counter?"
"Um, yes. It is. Would you - "
"Oh god."
"Would you mind just popping it in your freezer for me? So I can pick it up from you when I get back from my trip?"
"No. No, I will not. That is just too much to ask."

When I was about 12 years old I returned from a week at Horse Camp with some interesting souvenirs. A few days after I came home my mom started noticing a foul odor emanating from my bedroom. The smell got worse and worse until she couldn't stand it anymore.

"WHAT IS THAT HORRIBLE SMELL?"
"What? What are you talking about?"
"SOMETHING IN YOUR ROOM IS STINKING UP THE WHOLE HOUSE."
"No it's not! I don't know what you're talking about!"

She walked over to my bookcase where I'd prettily arranged my Horse Camp souvenirs. She gingerly picked one up and sniffed it.

"OH MY GOD. WHAT THE HELL IS THIS."
"Horse toe-nail clippings."
"WHAT?"
"Horse toe-nail clippings. They're pretty. I bet you didn't even know that horses need their toe-nails clipped."

Then there was the time my father confronted my mother in their kitchen with a grim expression and a paper bag.
"What? What's wrong?" she asked.
"This is not funny."
"What is not funny?"
"This. This is disgusting. I thought there was a special treat in here for me. This is just mean."

My father dropped the bag on the kitchen table and stormed upstairs. My mother, completely mystified, opened the bag and found a little frozen mouse. A frozen mouse I'd left in their freezer probably four years before, since it had been at least that long since I'd moved out. All I have to say is, maybe they should clean out their freezer more often?

But you know, my family kind of encourages this little hobby of mine. A couple of years ago my parents vacationed in Kauai, Hawaii. They hadn't been there since the time they'd taken me as a child. The year they took me to Kauai, I spent the whole week running ahead of them to admire the hundreds of flattened frogs laying dead in the street. I was probably 7 or 8 at the time and I just couldn't get enough of these dead frogs. It seems that the frogs would come out at night and get flattened by cars zipping past. Then they would dry in the sun and turn into these perfect, frog-shaped pancakes. I wanted to take one home SO BADLY. But of course my parents wouldn't let me. So, now the year is 2006 and my folks are in Kauai without me. They've been there a couple of days when I get a box in the mail. It's marked "Fragile" in my fathers handwriting and my mother has written, "This is a special souvenir your father picked out just for you." I was so excited. What could it be? I eagerly, yet gently - minding the "Fragile" warning - ripped open the box. It was a frog-shaped pancake. I still have it. I'm trying to grow the balls to bring it to one of those framing stores to have it professionally framed. I will hang it in a place of honor.

Currently, my apartment is home to a box of rabbit and deer bones which I discovered on various hiking trips through the Santa Monica mountains when I was a kid, a box of snake shed sent to me by my dear friend who is caring for my python while I live in NYC, a box of cat whiskers which I add to whenever I find a stray one laying around somewhere, and of course, the flattened froggy. Oh! and let us not forget my Dead Things photo set on Flickr. It would really be awful if I were ever accused of a violent crime. People would come forward to testify: "She keeps dead frogs in her closet! And she collects animal bones! AND SHE ENJOYS TAKING PHOTOS OF DEAD BIRDS."