This story by Helen DeWitt is so good. It reads like if a sharper Chuck Palahniuk wrote Raymond Carver. I hate saying a story is like if so-and-so wrote such-and-such because it downplays the actual originality and magic of the author's work, but it sure is PITHY.
This story is a very sharp and funny look at sadness. She is easily one of my favourite authors.
If you're interested, here's an interview I did with her, about language and suicide.