The Funeral

If you’re reading this, then I’m dead. Dead and gone. But not forgotten, as evidenced by the fact that you are listening (I’m NOT Dean Witter after all!). If only you had all listened so intently while I was alive (but no, it took the reading of my will, with the hope that you would get some wonderful money settlement, to get you all into a room where I could have the floor). And me not here to see it. I bet it’s a sight! If only you’d listened while I was alive. Perhaps then,….but that’s ancient history. At least two days old (isn’t that how long it takes someone to die and have a will reading, or perhaps you’re hearing this at my funeral—either way, you ALL get NOTHING!).

Two days (at least) I’ve been gone now. How I will miss those two days in my life. If you’d listened to my silent, but obvious pleas for help, perhaps I’d have lived longer. Granted, you couldn’t hear the nagging scream in my head when Mom decided to divorce Dad. While I said nothing outwardly to express my distaste for Mom—she should have caught on when she received the dead red tulips—red for “whore”—dead for “you in my eyes” Mom. And no, Mom, the flowers did NOT die and wilt in transit from Amsterdam (home of the pay for sex whores). But I let you believe that, because I figured you’d eventually catch onto the symbolism of Amsterdam (whores and drugs) and understand I felt like you were a whore on crack when you left Dad. Mom—that should have been an easy clue. The fact that I sent shredded negligees the next year (and no, the postal service didn’t shred them by accident!) was your next easy clue. It’s just too bad you were too stupid to figure them out—especially with you being such an avid watcher of Murder She Wrote.

And Dad—how could you leave Mom? If you hadn’t moved in with your nubile 17-year old “assistant” (what exactly did she assist you with? Yuck, I don’t want to know) intern, Mom would have come back to you, eventually. I know it, you know it, that slutty woman who’s having my “half brother” knows it.

But the person who fried my ass the most was Tom—I’d told him I was ready for a commitment or marriage—I was just waiting until Mom and Dad got back together. He said he didn’t mind waiting. Now, a short ten years later, he dumps me for a man. Said, “I didn’t know I was gay until I ‘accidentally’ (and I quote) went to the gay bookstore—stuck my dick in the hole—and realized it was a man sucking it!” My question to Tom is, Couldn’t you at least have waited until you told me it was over—before sending out the commitment ceremony invites? Also, Tom, if you’re here, 3” is not average. Five minutes is called premature ejaculation (not a “quicky”) and now I know why you never could remember those batteries for that vibrator you bought me for Valentine’s day, but always forgot to bring over to my house!). Hope your life turns out shitty!

And to my brother Michael, just because you’re attractive and women throw themselves at your feet, doesn’t mean you have the right to walk all over them! I’ve sent Sarah, your wife, a list of women who will testify in court to your indiscretions. I wouldn’t have done this, except for that incident with Granddad’s summer home—remember, the one you stole, as executor of the will. Now your wife (or is she your ex now? If not now, soon—will get at least 50% of everything. FYI: Sarah, in that packet, that’s coming in the mail soon, is also a list of hidden bank accounts my brother told me all about! We women have to stick together.)

Enough about the people who failed me. I’m sure you’re all wondering, why I never asked for help. And, why I killed myself? I never asked for help, because “help” is between “hell” and “hemorrhoids” in the dictionary: Either way, you get a burning pain in the ass when your friends turn you down (because their lives are so much more important than yours!). If you’re still clueless why I killed myself (Mom, are you here?) —I’ll explain it in terms even Mom can understand: I took my own life because you all fucken betrayed me in some way or another. And as that sappy movie, “It’s a Wonderful Life” states—a man (or women, in my case) with friends is rich—or some such shit—so someone without them is just plain fucking up a shit creek without a paddle. Goodbye—And fuck you all!