Okay, first things first, I am so mad. I sat down to write this post on Thursday and the stupid internet flipped out on me and I couldn’t even write the post. It was dumb.
When I was two, or, you know, somewhere in there, I became obsessed with death. Not in a super creepy playing-with-knives kind of way, I just sort of became aware that it was something that was going to happen to everyone. Unavoidable. It even happened to parents. How mind blowing was that?
This line of thinking, consequently, caused some questions to arise. Specifically, I frequently asked my parents when they were going to die. Since I was just a wee lass, I wasn’t so good at talking yet–so, the question, “When are you going to die?” Turned into the pretty cute and sort of macabre “When you donna die?” To be the phrase semifrequently uttered by myself.
This is something that has lived on in the family vocabulary. My dad loves to answer that question, particularly when he’s sick or very tired.
But, you know, I kind of had a point. Death is pretty inevitable, unless you’ve done something super creepy or, you know, immortal, which is kind of the same thing.
Just something super cheerful for you to think about on a Saturday evening.