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So. Horrifying Greek tragedy/Shakespearian nightmare on the local news tonight: Guy's wife died of pancreatic cancer in...March? A few weeks later his 20 year old daughter was killed by stray gunfire while leaving an art show. Then his 28 year old son, who had mental health issues and wasn't handling it very well, committed suicide this week--while on a waiting list for mental help. Guy went from a live of a happy retired Dad with a loving family to being completely alone in half a year. That's a serious kick in the penis.
I had quite the episode last weekend on the anniversary of my father's death. It was 32 years from his passing. It's something I carry with me everyday, but I only let it loose a few times a year still. So no, it never goes away. You never know when it will sneak up on you, but some dates are predictable. Most days are nominal.
Down at fraggle rock, grab a fraggle by its cock, spin him round and round, till his ball bag scrapes the ground... primary school remix bars. There was much more that I can't recite..
Put to a sad melody. I suppose what was difficult when my own mother passed, was knowing she was never happy. It was as though death became not the logical conclusion to a wonderful life, but rather the final insult to an existence of pain and disappointment. I could be a happy person, but I never went through the War, the big one that rated Roman numerals. She did. And that was her pain and agony alone.