Sunday, January 02, 2005
Smoke'Em If You've Got'Em
Once upon a time I took care of a cat named Lynda. Lynda was a stray in need of attention, in need of care.
I washed her and cut out her tangles. She looked embarassed.
I had houseguests at the time. I caught one of them with no shirt on, early in the morning. He had what looked like scratches all over his stomach. I, naively, asked him about them and he said that Lynda had scratched him earlier that morning.
I later found out it wasn't scratches, it was scars.
We've all got'em.
Once upon a time I took care of a cat named Lynda. Lynda was a stray in need of attention, in need of care.
I washed her and cut out her tangles. She looked embarassed.
I had houseguests at the time. I caught one of them with no shirt on, early in the morning. He had what looked like scratches all over his stomach. I, naively, asked him about them and he said that Lynda had scratched him earlier that morning.
I later found out it wasn't scratches, it was scars.
We've all got'em.
I dearly love my parents, but it troubles me when I talk to them about the death of friends.
I'm never quite sure what to say when someone tells me they just got back from a funeral.
Do you ask how it was? How'd they look?
Are there good and bad funerals?
I don't know, but I'm sick of the roll calls. I'm sick of hearing who was there.
I'm sick of my parents saying 'Death. It's awful. It seems like you've had more than
your fair share.' I'm not tiring of it as a petulant child, I'm not annoyed, nor am I at my
wit's end. I just don't like being reminded that every year there seems like there's one
less.
But still, I don't even know a fraction of it. I'm sure I haven't gone through the hardest.
That's what's troubling, it's all absurd and it still is never any easier. I'll lose more.
I shouldn't dwell on the suffering that's to come, but I want to be braced for it.
There's not much comfort.
You asked me if I thought he looked good, I said no! That's what I mean when I say no, I mean no!
What do you think he looked?
What is there to look, he looks dead, he looks like shit, please.
The kids looks like shit with all that stupid makeup they got on him.
He looks dead. All the funerals I ever been to, that's all there is, people
bullshitting each other with that he looked good, she looked good bullshit.
Get the fuck outta here with that willya please?
I'm never quite sure what to say when someone tells me they just got back from a funeral.
Do you ask how it was? How'd they look?
Are there good and bad funerals?
I don't know, but I'm sick of the roll calls. I'm sick of hearing who was there.
I'm sick of my parents saying 'Death. It's awful. It seems like you've had more than
your fair share.' I'm not tiring of it as a petulant child, I'm not annoyed, nor am I at my
wit's end. I just don't like being reminded that every year there seems like there's one
less.
But still, I don't even know a fraction of it. I'm sure I haven't gone through the hardest.
That's what's troubling, it's all absurd and it still is never any easier. I'll lose more.
I shouldn't dwell on the suffering that's to come, but I want to be braced for it.
There's not much comfort.
You asked me if I thought he looked good, I said no! That's what I mean when I say no, I mean no!
What do you think he looked?
What is there to look, he looks dead, he looks like shit, please.
The kids looks like shit with all that stupid makeup they got on him.
He looks dead. All the funerals I ever been to, that's all there is, people
bullshitting each other with that he looked good, she looked good bullshit.
Get the fuck outta here with that willya please?
