Ready to take over the crypt? Sure, move right in. Let me show you around.
Here is where I used to make love to my husband, your…what do we call him now? Man? Go ahead and make love to him there too. Don’t let our ghosts bother you.
Silly. You haven’t yet. No one bothers you, right super-whore?
When I used to visit you and your daughter — the one with cancer — the one my daughter babysat — who would have thought you would acquire my husband, my daughter’s time, and my house?
Aww shoot…good times.
Don’t trip over the tombstone of family Christmases in the living room. I guess you’ll just have to work around it for your own Christmases with your poor children, and my children, who you try to share with my ex-husband.
You know when they are polite to you, and make things for you, and eat your food, they still hate you. In their heads, where the truth can reside without defending itself. They still try to please their dad, for some reason, by being “nice” to you.
But I digress…
Don’t get lost in the grave yard upstairs, where all the memories of me reading bedtime stories to my kids are. I wish I could take all those memories with me for protection, but some have taken up permanent residency in the walls. Like the vodka bottles in the attic. You can’t see them, but they’re there. Their energy. If you work at it, I’m sure you can drown out past whispers with your famous positive self-talk.
Yes, you’re a fucking winner…said no one but you.
And he’s a fucking loser, so…
Oh, and turns out you can cut graveyard mist with air freshener for a while. But it doesn’t last. I’ve tried that.
I’ll leave a housewarming gift in the fridge. You can decide where to put it.