The Dying Game

I was going to fire up my deactivated Xitter account today out of morbid curiosity. But the 30-day reactivation window has long since closed.

Not sad about my inability to peek in on someone whose fashion sense I once described as Boy George in “The Crying Game.”

Really terrible of me to talk shit like that. I mean, what did Boy George ever do to me?

I don’t know why I was thinking of that necrotic wound. I am sure they are still seeping poison about me and making themselves the hero of a story no one cares to read.

“Trump has to be the bride at every wedding, the baby at every christening, the corpse at every funeral.”

That Xeet (Xit?) could apply to either of those festering, fungating fools.

I mean, really, what would I even see if I could see their nonsense again?

My guess is them using one of my life stories and inserting themselves in it somehow.

Or claiming that I breathlessly read every misspelled word.

Or giving HIPAA-violating, and Googlable, details about their kids.

Or bragging about things under the guise of “just providing content” that, again, nobody asked for.

Or, my favorite, ignoring or insulting people who genuinely try to engage in conversation in the comments.

Truly. You get one or two people who don’t realize this is utter fucking nonsense, and you are mad that they didn’t recognize that this was simply another soliloquy.

Anyway I haven’t thought a lot about death till Cocoa passed and something took her, like something took Kadie.

But I know someone who said five “shadow people” showed up for them. They didn’t recognize any of them. And they managed to avoid them.

What if this wretch showed up for me? You just KNOW that when I croak, I’m going to have my mom, grandparents, hopefully Sia and a few others I won’t name here, and a dozen cats. But what if I get fuCk you mINDY, scooter, psycho and more as my “five”?

Shit, I better get healthy if I want to avoid THOSE jokers.

I wish I understood the afterlife. And that at least I could get a day pass so I can decide whether that’s what I want or if I should raise some more hell so I can get sent somewhere that sounds way more fun.

Just don’t send me where those billowing Boy George frocks go to die, and I promise not to complain too much.

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