Better Off Dead
I saw on the bulletin board downstairs that Cheryl’s husband died at Christmas.
I looked at his photo — with a big old invite to his services on whatever day — and said sorry your wife is such a bitch.
She’s the one who screamed at me off the balcony for feeding ducks and threatened to fine me.
Still waiting. Have some balls, bitch.
Cheryl’s also the one who plays stink finger in the pool with Peppermint Patty, who has started trying to talk to me now that I put up a rainbow flag to counter the MAGA flag on the other side of me.
Anyway, I thought about all this stupid fanfare for Ron. Who I didn’t know and never cared to. Who I am sure is no loss, if he’s related to that wretch.
Made me think it’s high time to write an obituary for Momma. Someone who ACTUALLLY deserves to be celebrated.
I got to thinking about my Aunt Marion, who my cousin Elaine loved. I looked up Marion’s obituary and read it with new eyes.
“Survived by her loving husband Harry.” “Loved being a homemaker.” “Loved her nickname Penny.”
Where to start?
Penny … a short version of our shared maiden name? Nobody called any of us that. Lie.
Loved being a homemaker … you mean how Harry demanded she be a slave to him? Also she had some injuries I ALWAYS questioned. LIE.
Loving husband Harry … who sexually harassed Mom and Elaine? One of the uncles my Mom and Gram told me never hug and feel free to sit in your room while he visits?! HAHAHA FUCK THAT SHIT, NO LOVNG HUSBAND HERE.
That’s how I imagine writing Harry’s obit. It’s how I imagine writing Ron’s.
(Ironically, Ron is another name of another uncle of mine, though his obit would be more like FAKE FUCKING CHRISTIAN WHO JUDGES EVERYONE BUT HIMSELF who also somehow married well.)
In any event, since I have nothing nice to say about Cheryl’s husband, all I can really say is stay dead and take that bitch with you at your earliest possible convenience.
I never said new year/new me. I love me. In fact, I’m taking me up to a damn 11 or 12 in 2025.
Dawn: More extreme and unhinged than 2024. Fucking deal with it.
I’d say eat me, Cheryl, but she probably would.