it's everywhere! oh, god, it's in my raccoon wounds!

[phosfate]

Dear Mom:

I know one isn't supposed to speak ill of the dopey, tiny dead, but what the FUCK were you thinking with the open tin of fruit cocktail in the back of the cupboard? Did you mistake the cupboard for the icebox last fall, or was this some sort of April Fool's pre-planning foiled by the Grim Reaper?

'Cause, listen up lady, it is BLUE, it is FURRY, and it is STICKY AS FUCK back in there. It's really horrible. I swear to God, I am going to open up the tin with your ashes in it, and spread 'em around to absorb the ick, like sawdust on barf at a theme park. And then you and your evolving fruit cocktail are going straight into the Lancaster County landfill.

I could deal with the horrible knee-high socks you left everywhere, but this is a whole new level of gross. You're not funny, dead lady. Shut up. STOP LAUGHING DAMMIT!

Love,

Ann

Comments

[arien.livejournal.com]

I am soooo not looking forward to cleaning out my grandmothers' houses when they die. One has Parkinson's and has been on her own for ten years, and the other is batshit insane. Who knows what goodies I'll find?

[annlarimer.livejournal.com]

Dead bird parts. And the tiny skulls of children.