Can't Spell Funeral Without "Fun"

Nothing speaks to your own mortality more than a funeral or a KFC doubledown. Both make you face the inevitable end with grim acceptance, and the injustice of not knowing what it’s truly made of. Given my distrust of spirituality and processed meats, I honestly don’t want to know because I’m afraid of the answer.

Whenever I do something socially irresponsible and bitch about the repercussions to my “friends,” I usually get the “yes you will die cold and alone and left be to eaten by a horde of cats” response which usually doesn’t help. But isn’t that everyone’s greatest fear? Personally the cats add insult to injury because I’m allergic to them, but the poetic description does momentarily strike a chord before Coors light is thrown in the direction of the offender.

I’ve spoken of my general fear of complacency before, but it’s the idea of not accomplishing what you want to do in the time that’s given that is the truly terrifying part. Watching the mind fuck that is Unfaithful before going to the chapel probably didn’t help either. Who metaphorically knows when they are going to be murdered because they screwed Diane Lane? Nothing is certain, except how damn good she looked for her age.

On another note, it was nice to see how everything and nothing changes at home. Most of the former lake staff had come and gone, but my obnoxious signature remains the only unpainted place in the shack. My yard is slowing being turned into some sort of distorted wildlife sanctuary where JAP rabbits and turkeys roam free. My mother held up a check out line to count pennies in Saks. My room is still a humiliating ode to 2006 (I thought NIN lyrics “spoke to me” and Diesel ads were the most poignant testament to American culture.) And my brother has once again grown in the past two months since I’ve seen him. Shit happens, life goes on, and we can always look back and cringe at our horrible horrible decisions and decorating choices.