Dear Death,

I honestly don’t think you’re funny. I mean yes, you personally are funny, but the job you have. Well. Yeah. Totes not funny.

I suppose that one could say the same thing about any job.

I made a joke today, that Mom had loved The Cars so much that she fucking stole Ocasek, just like she did with a few of the others, and that if Nicolas Cage dies tomorrow, then my mother has taken over the afterlife and we should all pray for immortality.

It’s her feast day tomorrow.

And now, you have made it so that I have to, yet again, add another feast day, of one of my loved ones, to September, a month that I already have conflict with, Virgos and Fall…you know this already, and yet…

I know

I know

It is not your choice, as if you hold a grudge against any of them, you’re a delivery driver, a mail…spirit…a messenger…nothing personal

and yet I find myself in prayer, in this conversation, during which I find myself grateful that I do not own a gun with which I could shoot the messenger.

As always,


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