I'm a Sick Bitch.

David came in and caught me puffing on a joint.

"What are you doing?" Big eyes.

"Do you want to grow old, luv?" I visited my mother last Sunday in the home, where she was sitting gazing at the TV with her mouth open.

"Are we going to have to go to a funeral and a wedding all in this one week?" David asked sarcastically.

"Not anything you'd organise."

"What do you mean?"

"You and your flat earth ideas."

"I do not."

"You just call it something else."

"Oh yes, I'd be in there organising a nice Christian ceremony." Evil laugh.

"I know you can't be trusted."

"It will be amazing."

"IT will not."

"It WILL so."

Hocus pokus. "You and the other air heads."

"You believe, I know you do."

Oh yes, when all else fails we're back to that. 

"I tell you what, if you could find the priest who molested me when I was in the choir and you got him to preside over it."

"You're a sick bitch."

"You can do it."

"I can't believe you just said that."

"I don't know, it would be like tying up the loose ends." I chuckled. David took the bait. He started fanning himself with his hands.

Yes, it is the wedding this week. Very excited. Gay marriage, shiver.

I see divorce up ahead.

David told me I was a sick bitch when I told him that I was never molested, so that was how unlikely it was that I would have a pop-spiritual funeral. I'd come back and haunt the bitch. I'm a sick bitch? This is from a man who lets other men slide their arms up his arse. 

You're dead, you turn to dust. There is nothing else.

My "over all clever point" was that I have never been molested, so he will never be able to find that person, it was an impossible task. That was my point, anyway. Okay, so it might not have been as clever as I first thought it was, reading back over it. Maybe some people could, possibly, in this get-precious-over-everything society  we have become, get offended. Oh well, so what? Offence is a good way to exchange opinions.