I’m laughing at my own funeral because no one showed up. Not a soul, not even the people who swore they’d miss me when the world finally swallowed my sorry ass. Apparently, I wasn’t worth the price of a sympathy card. The flowers never came, the priest had somewhere better to be, and the gravedigger looked more emotionally invested in his lunch break than the man he was lowering into the dirt. What a fucking beautiful way to discover my importance. I spent years making room for people who couldn’t spare five minutes to mourn me. So go ahead, shovel the dirt, close the lid, and tell the neighbors I died peacefully. The truth is, I’m having the time of my life down here. Nobody interrupting, nobody pretending, nobody asking me to be someone I’m not. And if loneliness was the cause of death, at least I finally have something to blame besides myself. Cheers, you miserable bastards. The funeral is over, and I’m still the only one laughing.