Lord almighty, some months you’re just like “Oh, hey, uterus. Nice to hear from you. Hope you’re doing well.” And other months you’re like “Oh, boo hoo hoo, that’s the saddest song I’ve ever heard, that’s the cutest puppy–cry, cry, cry–I’ve ever seen (even though it looks weirdly like my old neighbor, which even the Butcher agreed with me about),” “waaaaaa, that is the sweetest Christmas story I have ever heard!” “Oh, look, the Butcher got milk. Sob, sob, sob.”
Which reminds me, my dad told me that he thinks his grandmother, his Grandma Phillips, was a professional mourner. She went to people’s funerals and got paid to be sad they were dead.
I have to tell you that I find this to be–true or not–something that makes me feel weirdly close to Ina Mae. After all, what is a ghost story but a chance to mourn?
And also, holy shit, if this weepiness is inheritable, I bet she was, 1/4 of the time, pretty amazing at it. A natural talent.
I’m just saying, people, I could cry over the death of Montgomery Bell at this point. That’s how ridiculous it is.