"Mausoleums and Meth" by Veronica St. Clair

I wonder if all graves are exactly six feet deep. I realize how over crowded it is here. I do not however mean by the families or loved ones, but by the deceased. I wonder why people spend so much money on dressing up a rock that sits on top of a rotted and buried carcass. As I stare at the shiny, black marble inscribed in gold italic letters or the mausoleum engraved with the spiraled ivy and shitty poetry that appears to be stolen from some religious or spiritual Hallmark card, I think how ridiculous this all is. The poem is usually expressing what a great person was lost; the juicy part always left out and never fully exposed. No one dares to say how the mother overdosed on meth or beat her children before she drowned them in a bathtub. On the other hand, how the father had incurred an excessive amount of credit card debt buying anime porn off some illegitimate website, leaving his costly addiction to be inherited by a relative.

I hope no one would be so foolish to spend such an amount of money on me. I prefer to be stuffed and mounted in a corner, used as a coat rack, or coffee table, something useful. I do not wish to be buried in the soil of the world or to be over indulged in roses and lilies after I could no longer care. On the plus side of things, I love the way the cemetery smells like fresh cut grass and over priced flowers. It truly is lovely here. Being here makes concentrating so much easier, my surroundings being as calm as they are. After all, everyone is so shy and quiet here.