Death and Videoke Machines

Death is death. One can go about it quietly or with the gunpowder of drama, whichever suits them best. I don't consider it a mystery or as an object of fascination like that fellow Poe. I guess it's interesting to watch a person stop breathing, more interesting to watch this person getting killed unnaturally. I sometimes stop and think about it. But really now? As far as I'm concerned, I'm immortal. If by some misfortune the gods miscalculated the length of my immortality to something shorter than it shouldn't be, then I die early. End of my story.

When I die, I want to be burned to ash. I don't want a fancy, formal ceremony. I wouldn't mind a few people crying on the side if they feel like it, but it's okay if they don't. There's no need for anyone to give me a eulogy or a requiem, seeing as I wouldn't be able to hear them anyway—the principle behind such things, I think, is that they do it for them who still live and have to cope with my physical termination, and not me who would probably be off gallivanting in the afterlife or simply reposing in oblivion. In other words, when I die, I just want to die and get it over with and save people the hassle of ceremony.

What I'm trying to say isn't this: my neighbors are stupid. Apparently, some fellow died and his decomposing body is on display inside their house to be viewed by people who have gobbled too many kornik and sunflower seeds, drunk too much alcohol. Yesterday, as I weaved my way around haphazardly positioned tables and chairs in the middle of the street in front of their house, a thick cloud of flies buzzed good morning to me, distracted from their feast of sunflower seeds. Towering in the middle of the filth is a videoke machine.

These people have been humping this thing since Sunday. I blame them for not being able to post anything lately because their miasmic voices prevent me from hearing myself think—they are the worst singers in my whole wide world. What annoys me the most though is their utter lack of respect for the dead. I always thought of a burol as a solemn occasion (however much I disapprove of it) where people drop by to see a dead body and say their goodbyes. My stupid neighbors should know that.

I think, so far, I haven't done anything evil to deserve piss drunk people singing Kweshee songs over my future remains. This dead fellow next door must be horribly unlikable.