The Tale of the Goodbye

Death is so weird. If you think about it just by itself, without the pain. But, when you add what makes it so ugly, it's beautiful, too. 

One day, your world gets a little smaller and the sand in the hour glass takes up more space on the bottom than it does on the top. People get a little older, and so do you. Things and people turn into photos floating in brain fluids, that get stuck in smells and love letters, favorite songs and places. And when you gather them all up to flip through them, it's like watching a movie of all the things that made you who you are; and all the people you wouldn't trade anything for.

Your brain is sticky with times like the one where your kindergarten teacher taught you to be kind, how she gave you a long hug when your grandpa died; but, now doesn't teach anymore, and doesn't remember. The one where anytime you visited grandma, she always asked you 80 times before bed if you were hungry; but, now she isn't there and you're not even hungry, and you just miss her; the one with your favorite dog giving you all the kisses in the universe, being with you when you were sad or sick, or going to the lake, and following you like a shadow; but now he's in your arms on the exam table, and you're telling him not to be scared, and you love him, even though you had to make the hardest decision; having to say the things you never thought you would ever have to say, not knowing how to say goodbye because you're not ready, and how could you ever be ready; and goddamnit, it isn't fair. 

I know you're sad and you are doing your best right now just to get through the milliseconds. I know you're tired. But, when you're ready, scoop up your photographs, and find a way to bring life back to them. Save your dad's last message on your voicemail and listen to it when you miss him; keep your sister's favorite shirt, make it into a winter hat, because winter was her favorite season; make your favorite midnight snack grandma insisted on making you, and take it to somebody hungry, who just wants to be loved; make your dog's collar into a keychain, and leave the tags on it so it jingles in your pocket; he'll follow you on every adventure you'll have without him, just like a shadow. What a thing it is that we to get to love as big as we do, for as long as we do. 

In the words of Winnie the Pooh, how lucky we are to have something that makes saying goodbye so hard.

The Tale of the cop, the asshat, and the fleshlight

The neighborhood Mary Kravitz has called not once but TWICE to complain to the cops about our car parked in the street, which isn't on fire, or on cement blocks, or housing a homeless person. 

This assbag drives past at least 3 times a week, honking in a very belligerent, murdery way, using the speed bump as a fucking launchpad. I know who he is, and where he lives. 

So, the last call he made sent out a very nice female police officer that explained "all you have to do is move it every couple of days, even if it is an inch forward or backward. If they call to complain, as long as you're moving it, we can't do anything." She motioned with a hand gesture horizontally forward or backward, and she had this profound look of "fuck my life" and "you gotta be fucking kidding me, but it's protocol" written all over her face. I giggled for like a good, solid 10 minutes because I didn't know that was a thing. There are murders to be solved, but our car somehow ended up in the lottery for shit that needed attention by law enforcement. 

I have decided that I'm gonna buy a fleshlight just for him, and fill it with catshit since that's the only penetration that thing will ever know. My cat is 17, his shit doesn't work all that great, so he has some runny, awful poop, and it smells like the inside of a baby's coffin. And when I catch him out in the front yard, I'm going to chunk it at his shitty, maroon Mustang GT and tell him the next time he speeds past the house like a fucktard, I'll take a giant hard-boiled egg and chili induced shit on the hood of his Barbie car so it runs underneath and gets into his ventilation. I have killer IBS, so I know it'll be a doozy. While this is happening I want to also make eye contact with him, because I want him to know who's in charge. 

Keeping it classy since never.