Noun: European Shorthairs – Plural form of European Shorthair
I can’t wrap my dull mind around the unbounded optimism that Captain Hopeful has.
I for one just want to recoup my debt to my parents so I can go drop dead somewhere already.
“How much does it cost to raise a child … to age eighteen?” I asked Mom.
“Why?” she was puzzled.
“No reason.” I rolled over on the bed. Add that to the cost of college and that’s my debt. And then a large margin of error because I’ve always been a spoiled child. And then some because a funeral isn’t cheap. And I don’t think the insurance company will pay out when they find out I’ve ingested cyanide or something.
Oh, and of course don’t forget a bonus so that Mom and Dad can actually go have a real honeymoon. They won’t be in the mood the first few weeks after I’m gone, but they’ve got to use it someday. And then they’ll understand why I bothered leaving behind a honeymoon fund.
I don’t want my funeral to be a big deal. I’ll go quietly across the River Styx, but if everyone insists on making a fake fuss about it, I’ll be offended. I won’t be taken in by the stupid constructed notion that I’ll be “missed” or that I leave a “hole” behind. Bullshit. I’ll be as missed as a dog turd on Persian carpet. I didn’t really want to be born; neither did the turd have a choice in being dumped on somebody’s carpet.
There are, however, a few pieces of music I want played at my funeral, and I’ll leave a list behind for sis when my time comes. Other than that, I’ll almost certainly be angry from beyond the grave if any false mourners show up. Ugh. Keep it small and simple.
I haven’t explored life enough, but what little I’ve seen runs like an episode of a really, really bad TV show that’s on permanent repetition. The opening is familiar, the middle is predictable, and you’ve experienced the ending a million times already. People get sick of this stuff. I’m particularly sensitive to it because I’ve had so much time to think.
Should I get a life? Waaayyy too much work, and probably too shallow for me. Should I join a religion? I’ve thought that through in too much detail, and I’m certain that nobody could get me to really believe. Should I take a holiday? What a waste of money for an uncertain amount of enjoyment that would probably be viciously marred by logistics, pickpockets, bedbugs, and nasty traveling mates.
As always I’m sick, I am sick – like we’re sociologically sick!