Just another Rant.

“You forget people quickly.”

It was my mother’s voice echoing in the corner of my mind that woke me up from my daydreaming. But one must live in the present so here I am. I find myself in a weird position. Aside from sitting in an uncomfortable chair and in a way that is not quite complimenting my posture, that is not what I mean by weird position. Wearing black and in a room full of crying people. Granted this was not part of my resolution but I have accepted it after some whining. Who am I kidding? For a person who often answers with “I don’t even have a pla..” I am one to talk about resolutions. The irony is not lost on me. But here I sit at the corner, contemplating and half annoyed at the fact that I am about to hear an eulogy. Who dies on new year's? Seriously , it's like you almost made it to the next year and life decides Zoinka! you are fired. A surprise visit from the grim reaper. 

I see all the people crying here in the memory of how saintly the deceased was. I beg your pardon but “saintly” isn’t exactly a fitting word truth be told.It’s like when you die you automatically become a good person. And There is always a Martha at these events. Marthas are the type to get vocal about their crying as if they were in a screaming contest. We all know your husband used to beat you no need to act Martha. He is dead now. Or are you crying because you didn’t do it first? 

 The day goes by with more and more people getting creative with their crying out loud and the terms of endearment. 

“Mass murders make more sense now.” My friend's voice is like a whisper in my head. I look down to hide my smile and repeat it for myself, MASS MURDERS MAKES MORE SENSE NOW. 

They say “Don’t speak ill of the dead.” It's mostly because well, this person is dead, they can’t defend themselves, the dead can no longer hurt us, Stating the obvious I know. 

They even carve it on headstones: in the memory of a loving mother, a devoted husband,beloved best friend ... .What is the point for all of this? Is it to help us sleep better at night or when it is our turn to die people will do the same for us? There are probably people who cried for Hitler, thinking of his “Kind nature”. What do I know? 

So now the crying session and the pity porn is over. I head out, as I walk  down the streets I am hit by the sudden realization of how quickly August ended. I hate August, It is a month of tragedy. I would not be surprised if I attended a funeral then but somebody got the late delivery of life’s expiration date. Perhaps it’s a special package so that the person feels special about death rather than this sorry ass life. That’s harsh but why does it matter once you die? It really doesn’t. 

In Front of me there is a young man talking to himself out loud. Me and you both buddy. I decided to notice my surroundings in hopes of finding inspiration.(I rarely do that just in case I run into a car and it hits me hehe) I see an old man sitting on a stool outside of a liquor store. He is smoking and the way he inhales and exhales the smoke, he looks like a steam train from the 40s. I see a woman on the streets beginning. I notice another man talking on the phone. He is loud and is making a threat. Okay I did not need to hear that. Anyways I continue to walk this time contemplating life.

I get nostalgic and the past floods my memory. I get intimate with them. Almost as intimate as sharing a cigarette. Nonetheless, sad and deceiving as a drunk man’s promise. Thinking is the antithesis of happiness anyways. What do I know anyways? 

Now all jokes aside, a girl has to earn a living. So funerals are where I get my daily bread. I start making mental notes of the words I will compose to decorate a dead person. Another wonderful thing about being a writer. You paint a picture with words. You make the immortal curating statements they don’t deserve or have never heard of in their lifetime. You are welcome, you poor dead bastard. I am a hypocrite like the rest of them but at least I get paid for doing it. Ah, well that’s just another Wednesday of an Obituarist.