This morning, at breakfast:
Coombsie: You know. I don’t get the…selection process…that goes into pictures that accompany the death notices.
Coombsie: I mean, look at this one. Why would you want that in your death notice? Like, you’re dying, and you tell someone: “Hey, remember that picture you took of me during our camping trip the morning I was hungover as fuck? THAT’S the one I want in the paper.”
Later in the day. My phone rings.
Me: Development. This is Lisa.
Coombsie: I feel bad.
Coombsie: So, that death notice I was making fun of? I WENT TO HIGH SCHOOL WITH HIM. I went on Facebook and I had, like, a BILLION messages from people I went to high school with, which never happens, and they were all, “Ohhh, this guy died and here’s the information on the funeral and blah.” I feel terrible. I was making fun of this guy, and now it’s like he’s come back from the grave to tell me: “You’re gonna die, too, and people are going to make fun of YOUR picture.”
Me: Probably what’s going to happen is he’ll end up haunting our basement with your grandfather, your aunt, and all those cats that are buried in the back yard.