Getting older, the older I get the more I value dirt over things best left dead.
Oh boy Judd, don’t I know it. I don’t know why I did or do anything anymore. There was some movie theory about Judd in Pet Semetary; was he evil in himself or was he being manipulated by the evil in the Mic Mac burial ground? Apparently the book was one of the few that actually scared Steven King himself, which is very special.
Anyway, sometimes dead is better is one of my life philosophies. Eternal truths, to be written into stone at the end of time.
So imagine my irritation at having to dig back up my last job. I was well past it. We had already had the wake and funeral. This was a full disinterment, and dead WAS better, turns out, who knew? I knew.
My mom leaned on me to do it, because she wanted me to file an appeal with unemployment, she thought I might have a case. She’s a sweet woman that way, believes the best in people. I didn’t want to do it, but it’s hard to give my mom the dead is better speech. She can’t even watch the Shining, poor dear.
No, there was no room for an appeal. It was just bringing all those feelings back, those feelings I wept at the wake and funeral, and that I was starting to move past….. and EVERYONE is at the same time asking me about next steps and I’m like you’re dragging me back through the worst experience of my life. I was fine with it being dead. Dead was better.
But what would Christmas be without a bit of needless torture, eh?
Fricken Americans, I’m not even certain I’m one of them anymore, maybe I’m a rogue European accidentally left in America by accident, or an Aussie, I could be an Aussie. I’m sure as hell not an Oklahoman, I’d never do what these crab salad brained wonders have done to me. I don’t know how you get to the point of doing this to other people, oh wait, I do, lots of meth and red hats.