Life is good till you have to weed graves. It’s not so much as creepy till you see rainbow-colored flies landing on umbrellas. My father’s father’s father died of a whooping cough epidemic. It was hard for me to accept because I didn’t know of any relatives who didn’t pass away of old age. He was young – so young, the tombstone hadn’t any year inscription! I didn’t even know him. My dad wasn’t even born yet. Suddenly this guy so detrimental to the arrangement of proteins on a double-helix strand that makes you you appears.

No more weed-whacking – I wanna be cremated (when I’m dead, that is.)