You know that stupid little thing that girls say? “I wonder who will cry at my funeral?” Nobody will cry at my funeral, if I had it my way. Funerals are a waste people’s time. So great, I’m dead, so everybody interrupt their lives to get all teary about my life. What good does it do? What a waste! If I ever die, and somebody reads this, make sure my parents know that I don’t want a funeral. I just want to be in a pine box under the ground. It doesn’t matter — I’m dead.
So I have to go to the funeral of my great grandmother. Who I think I’ve seen once in my life. Grand. I’ve never met you, but you sure the hell make me go to your funeral. Makes perfect sense.
And, while I look damn good in dress clothes, I have other things to be doing. Tommorrow I swear, I’m smoking four packs of cigarettes and draining the liqour store. I hate funerals. Stupid little compensation for the living that actually just makes people cry more. Great, let’s make everybody more unhappy than they already are.
Pine box for me. Or burn me. Flesh is flesh.
