Flowers.

On my way to and from work I pass a small graveyard.  Typically I see landscapers, or people walking their dogs, (which is a little odd to me).  Yesterday I saw a woman though, with hair the color of a marshmallow, watering, what I would assume to be, flowers.

My first thought was, “aw that’s sad, she’s probably tending to her husbands grave.”  My next thought was, “but who is going to water the flowers at my grave?”.

No one.

I do not want kids, and I am starting to second guess the joy of monogamy.  Although even if I were to get married one day my poor future husband will most likely die before me, so I will end up like that old lady with the marshmallow hair, watering some stupid flowers, at some stupid grave, in some stupid cemetery.

Maybe I will end up a spinster, no cats though, well maybe one, but definitely no more than two.  The cats would probably out live me, since they live to be around 30, and I won’t break down and get a cat until about 80, and I’ll probably only have a good 10 years left in me.

Ugh, unless they create some miraculous anti-aging drug that can allow people to live for centuries.  Kind of like in Anaconda: Search for the Blood Orchid.  Horribly-great movie, you should give it a watch.

Anyways, I don’t even want to be buried.  I would most definitely like to be cremated.  I want my urn to be a hollowed-out, custom-made figurine of James Franco, because I would love to be inside of him.