Tag Archives: death

Wordless

26 Feb

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I have to write a letter tonight, to a man I haven’t spoken to in nearly 14 years. 

…It’s about another man, whom I haven’t seen in almost as long. 

I feel side-swiped, and ill prepared, though there were signs that were telling me to get ready.  Signs that this was coming.  But I was so consumed with trying to dig out of the last family loss, that I didn’t give this next one the attention I should have, nor the people on the other side of family tree, sharing limbs with me.

Tonight, they are gathered, there.  I know what they feel. I know the loss of appetite and swell of pain ripping upward from the throat which comes from trying to hold back tears.  I know they are huddled together, speaking comforts to one another. Uncles are picking up Aunts from the airport. Everyone seems to be whispering, with grim-faced stares.  Children are fussing and crying because they don’t understand what it all means, only it is the most terrifying thing in the world to see your father cry.

…I imagine.

They are at a loss, with a loss, which seems somehow removed from me. I don’t like to admit it, but I want to comfort them, without being hypocritical. Having a loss that rips you in two deserves its proper mourning, and sympathy. They knew and grew up with this man their entire lives, and the simple fact is: I did not.

This afternoon, I found out that my Grandfather had passed away.

The man has given me my name, by once marrying my Grandmother, and adopting my Father and his sister, before carrying on to grow the family further. From them grew cousins I adore, and their sweet babies I wish I could snuggle. He may not have been of my blood directly, but it was a proud name, and he was a proud man, and his life, though almost exclusively separate from mine, helped to make me who I am today.

Our ancestors are our roots, seeding us, growing us, anchoring us into our places on this earth in a true marriage of “for better or worse, richer or poorer, in sickness and in health.” For this, I am truly thankful to him, but I know it is not the same as the pain the others are feeling tonight.

…And I feel really badly about that.

Frankly, I feel like a total asshole.

For over an hour today, I haunted the sympathy card aisle, trying to choose something to send to my family. Something that recognized the epic loss, without making it sound as if it had nothing to do with me…yet nothing which might hurtfully presume more of a relationship which I hadn’t earned, and would have no right to presume upon them now in their grief.

…Just so you know: They don’t make those kind of cards.

I’m literally faced now with two “blanks.” Something calming on the outside of water and blooming life: on the inside: nothing.

One for my Grandmother and family.

One, for my Father.

I have a pen sitting right there, on the table, but I’ve no idea whatsoever where to begin.

…Even just starting the first one is odd.

“Dad,” it says.

Simple enough I guess, only not so much when you haven’t spoken the word in one and a half decades. Two years before that. Four before that.

I don’t know my Father, any more than I knew his.

So now I must write of one to the other, and have suddenly a minefield stretching out before me of all the things NOT to say, yet no idea how to get to the things I should.

What, for instance, can I write, which won’t dig up past ghosts, and hurl them at him blind-sidedly…triggering whatever regrets and/or guilts he might have held onto all these years, as people from broken relationships do? Now is not the time to appear to be throwing loaded emotional bombs at people in their grief…even less, at your own Father. Because you actually harbor him no ill will, that was all over…long ago.

…You just don’t know him, is the end result.

…So what in the hell do you say in a card on the loss of your “Dad’s” Dad, when you can’t seem to even think of the title yourself without quotations marking it’s specific significance?

I don’t have the proper practice it takes to say it without sounding foreign.

Love of family can be an odd happenstance, a Frankenstein-and-the-Monster kind of thing. Sometimes it is a comfort from stability and encouragement. Sometimes it is a flamethrower away from all-out war. Sometimes it resides in the symbolism. Mostly, I’d say, in the “shared experience”…good, bad, or otherwise. Because of this, you can hold that fierce connection and devotion, no matter how far apart you roam from one another. You belong to the name. You belong to the history. You belong to the gene pool, and its every harbored secret and horror and wonder and joy and regret.

…Because of this, I can say, “I love my family,” and mean it…whether I particularly know them well…whether I’ve met their spouses, or children…whether I attend the potlucks and football games, show up at Easter…or not…because we are linked by these viciously intense, and invisible tethers. They are my people, and I am there’s.

…I want to tell them: “I’m sorry for our loss” without sounding condescending or belittling the depth of their grief in any way. After all: they’ve been there through thick and through thin…and I have not.

…I want to say things of comfort, give hugs that will help, and be an ear to talk to…should any of them want or need that essential sounding board when lost in the anger, confusion and sadness of what has happened and what is yet to come, from it’s repercussions.

…And if I knew how, I’d want to tell my Dad…

…I guess I’d tell him…

…What?

…In all seriousness? Waiting for Godot would not be as long as waiting with this pen sitting in front of me tonight…

I really just need to not fuck this up.

~D

The Part No One Talks About

8 Feb

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*Unvarnished grief, real-talk, inappropriate and uncomfortable subject matter. But I need to let it out, and somewhere, someone might just need to read it. To know: you’re not alone.
~
I needa shower.

Feel gross.

…Eleven hour car rides (one way) through snow and ice storms to get to Oregon, turn around the next day, and do it all over again, in the single most depressing field trip of all time.

Because death isn’t funny.

…Except when it is ironic, or unreal.

…Which it nearly always is…

…Once upon a time, my shrink said, “the second you can laugh at or make fun of a thing, is the second you win control of it.”

…But really, I’ve been far too pissed off to make fun of death lately.  With or without irony.  I know it isn’t supposed to be the “funny, ha, ha” kind of laugh…it’s the dark and twisted side. Obviously. Like where Tim Burton lives. Like if Tim Burton were a Funeral Director, instead of just a movie one.

…It sort of makes sense, because death is something we all deal with and will all have to face, and fearing and raging and crying about it doesn’t lessen any of those facts.

For me, it’s the awesome moments of “slap-stings” occurring…as if from no where, instant microseconds of time which wallop you so fucking hard and fast that you have forgotten how to breathe and when you come-to again, can’t understand how you are even still standing up and not in a clump on the floor.

…Cuz you FEEL like you’re a clump on the floor.

…In fact, a clump on the floor, sounds like a soothing place to be.

…But you’re not.

…Instead, you’re in another city. In another state. In a funeral home. Waiting for the Director (a youngish, clean-cut guy in a suit, not at all resembling Tim Burton) to get the paperwork to sign.

…And the sheer weight of morbidity for you to be standing here in this place, just about manages to send you into an anxiety attack.

…But you don’t let it.

…You push back.

…From the middle of the room…by the chairs you’ve just been asked to sit in.

Giant, overstuffed leather.

In front: a giant round table, with a giant box of kleenex, masked in a faux giant stack of books. You don’t sit (of course), because that would require motor skills and the confidence in your ability to stand back up again. Instead, you just stand there…trying not to become enclosed in the shrines of death all around…the walls of boxes and urns, the pillowed caskets, plaques and stone mock ups, and to the left, apparently: “pet haven”…where you can have all of the same in miniature version, or have Sparky turned into a pendant made of his own pressed ash.

…And that is when this shit just gets totally unreal. Like beyond ridiculous.

…And somewhere you must realize it’s prob’ly not reasonable to be so pissed off at the fact that there is a “pet” section at the funeral home you are here to claim a family member from. “Pets” are people too (or so they say.) But at that second, it becomes sorta the turning point of, “ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME RIGHT NOW?! THEY HAVE A PET DEATH SECTION, LIKE JUST OUT HERE, RIGHT IN YOUR FACE?! AS IF LOSING A GODDAMN DOG BELONGS IN EVEN REMOTELY THE SAME REAL ESTATE OF FLOOR SPACE, AS LOSING AN ACTUAL HUMAN BEING?! I HATE ALL YOUR FUCKING DOGS! AND CATS! FUCK YOUR FUCKING BIRDS AND GERBILS TOO!! FUCK ‘EM ALL!!!”

…Is what you are thinking.

Really, really loudly.

To yourself.

…But you must confess, it does help a little. Having something tangible to become angry at. Because up till then it was all about trying not to look at and note the weirdness of various makes and models of open caskets with pillows, resting on the floor…like they were inviting you to take them for a test drive or something…and the wall of urns and boxes and cylinders and mini “keepsake” vials…that hold the remains of what “remains” when we are, you know…not alive anymore…but for some reason, people want to keep you around anyway.

…Creeped out, more by the second…thrown back instantly to every Holocaust film and research flashback…and bad horror film you’ve ever heard with your eyes shut… you were, in the end, semi-saved by a rage-fest at the “pet haven” section.

Which lasted exactly as long as it takes for a guy to walk from his office, back again, with a manila full of documents to sign.

…Then it all comes crashing back to real-times again. And that hurting-to-breathe thing. And stinging eyeballs. And you try to hold your shit together, just a little while longer, so as to NOT lose it in front of this stranger (who I’m sure is totally used to it by now)…”just three minutes more,” you think, “And it’ll all be over.”

But then it all comes to this silent, silent moment where time and space and life completely freezes. It’s like being out in the country after a new snow. The silence is SO silent, and pure, that all you can hear is your own breath…and your own heartbeat. You can actually feel it’s thump so hard that you can hear it. Pure, pure, silence of: STOP.

You’ve been handed a box.

It is heavy. Heavier than you would suppose, had you ever thought of the weight, which you never have, until now. In your hands. Maybe a million what-others-might-consider-morbid-thoughts, cram your head full, but you don’t think of them as morbid. They are wonders. They are private. I don’t even know if they are articulate enough to convey. But the single biggest two, you know:

“It’s wrong that I can pick him up, now.”

And…

“I need to get the hell out of here, before I blow.”

…So, you do.

…Get the hell out of there.

…And because you don’t know what else to do…because you don’t know the “protocol” for transporting your uncle’s remains in a car ride, a full state away…you do the only thing that comes to mind.

You put him, very carefully, on the back seat, with a seat belt securing him in.

…And you get into the car…

…And you ball your fucking eyeballs out.

…Until you really can’t see or breathe anymore.

…And you squeeze your Mom’s hand.

…And then…because life has to go on…you turn out on the road. And drive home.

There are all kinds of grieving, and ways that people come to terms and deal with the things they must. For me, it’s been a lot of anger, this time ’round. Anger of “too soon,” and “simple causes that can’t be reasoned with” and “what about his son?” and much, much more. Too pissed off to cry as much as I probably should. But there are no rules, no “how-tos,” no right and wrong ways when it comes to grief…I don’t give a shit how many books you read or shrinks you go to. Everyone sees and feels and deals with the after-effects differently. Everyone needs their space to do so. Everyone needs to come, in their own time, in their own way, to that silent-snowfall moment…where it finally sinks in, and the enormity of the loss is so loud, it renders the entire world deaf with it.

I am thankful for a belief that all he is doesn’t rest in a box that I can hold in my hands.

I am thankful for a belief that he has moved on to a place where he can watch us and his son, and laugh and make merry, and be the “he” that he always was here, only care-free.

I am thankful that I have such a hilarious, cheerleading, go-to-guy up there…so close to the ear of the dude that makes “the calls.”

…But none of that replaces or excuses the fact of what we had to do that day, or what he had to live through for fourteen before all this, or what his son will have lost, for the rest of his life.

I have a bone to pick with God on that one, and I think I always will.

I’ve added it to the list.

So noted.

…Now, to that other one:

“Take a shower. Get human again.”

~D

F%@$ You, Downton Abbey!: A Love Letter

19 Feb

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**Spoiler Alert**

If you haven’t yet watched the finale of Downton’s Season 3, then stop reading now…or I will ruin your life.ย 

…If you have already seen it: Julian Fellows ruined our lives, and this is the part where we grieve together.

First of all, Marty kept it secret for a whole week.ย 

…I’d gotten her the season for her Birthday, which she dutifully ate up, then drew blood on a continual basis by biting her tongue about what happens.ย  She was supposed to have brought the discs to our Friday Girl’s Night, but had forgotten them at home, so we both stewed, then got over it, then went to see a film which made us forget everything but awesome stuff.

…Regardless of how amazing Maggie Smith is, this still meant that I was gonna have to wait until at least Monday to see what the rest of the world was already going to know, by late Sunday. No cable, means streaming ability only, (thank you Masterpiece), and work, plus rehearsal meant it was gonna have to wait until late.

…And it did.

…And then I got really pissed.

…And used some choice words that apparently Dame Smith finds particularly appealing in her own personal lexicon.

…But before all that, I needed to follow through on a promise. A blood oath with Marty that I would hook in, as soon as the episode began, and IM her my immediate responses she would have been able to SEE, had she remembered to bring the damn discs last Friday. Which (because of the interactive way I tend to watch television anyway), became a mass flood in stream-of-consciousness updates yelled at both her, and the TV screen.

I include it here as follows:

**

Me Text: And Downton begins…

Marty: Ooooohhhh my Jesus!! Do you know what happens already?

Me Text: Nope. Surprised it’s a year later, automatically.

Me to TV: Ooo. Alternate intro. Mixin’ it up, kids…!

Marty: She’s pregnant!!!!

Me Text: Yup. ๐Ÿ™‚ The end spoiler last week showed it though.

Me to TV: Well, they can’t kill off Mary, so it won’t be that. But something not right is gonna happen with the baby. Obviously. To freak everyone out about it. Bet it comes way early or something…

Me Text: It’s gonna be a Preemie…just know it.

Me to TV: Wait. Maid-chick-what? Nope. Bitch, step down!

Me Text: Crap. Branson and a maid. Crap.

Marty: I know. You see her and you are like, LAY OFF BITCH.

Me to TV: Dude, don’t be an idiot stereotype. Stay AWAY from the Help! Know your place!!

Me to TV: Meanwhile…A castle. With actual turrets…!

Me Text: Hello Scotland. Yes, please.

Me to TV: Party times! Boss is out!! Lets bust out of here everyone, and add some color into our wardrobes!!!

Me to TV: Shit. Everyone is gonna be gone from the house. Something’s gonna happen to the house…!

Me Text: If the house burns to the ground or something while at the fair, I’m gonna lose it.

Me to TV: Oh. Wait. Wait. Mrs. Crawley’s gettin’ all hit ooooon….

Me Text: Ahhh…Matthew’s Mama and the Doc. Bomb-chicka-bow-wow.

Marty: I know. Right?!?!

Me to TV: Oh dear lord in heaven. TWO Mrs. O’Briens. Save us all…

Me to TV: God. Mary, whhhhy must you allllways be suuuuuch a biiiiiitch.

Me Text: Mary is suuuuuuch a bitch.

(My stream freezes as Downstairs are collected looking out the window at a twitterpated Mrs. Patmore. I cuss. I doodle with the computer. I reboot and reset.)


Me Text: My stream just died. Trying to start over and skip to the same part. Fuck.

Marty: Nnnnnnooooooooo that’s not cool!!!! What part are you at?

Me to TV: Fucking computer and it’s fucking…oh…there. Ok. That works-ish I guess.

Me Text: Got it goin’ but had to go back a bit. Bates and Anna and the smoking peppermint.

Me to TV: I love you Bates’ so much…why haven’t you made babies yet?

Me to TV: …And back to the “borrowed” Jane Eyre plot point of the dude with the crazy wife no one knows about…

Me Text: Poor Edith and her shitty men. YOU’RE ALREADY MARRIED, JAGHOLE!

Marty: I know, but not really. I mean he shouldn’t have to suffer with an insane wife for forever. I mean, she doesn’t even know who he is.

Me Text: He shouldn’t. But she deserves better. Wow. This is like the “everyone hooking up with everyone else” episode…

Me to TV: (Totally cracking up and repeating:) Daisy: Mrs. Patmore? Why not? She’s a woman, ain’t she? Thomas: Only “technically”…

Me to TV: Establishing shot to die by. Lookit that! Lookit it!!

Me Text: Scotland is ridiculous. I want to go to there.


Marty: Yes it is!!!! And we will go there!!

Me to TV: Ohhhh! Shut up, shut up…romancing by a hot Doc…and she has like no idea what is ahead…but I do!

Me Text: A date! With the Doc!!

Marty: Holler!!!

Me to TV: OMG. Anna. Why are you so freakin’ adorable? Lookit her. Learning to reel. How fucking cute is she??

Me Text: I love Anna ๐Ÿ™‚

(Computer stream freezes and jerks. And starts. And freezes again. And then goes. Kinda.)


Me Text: Dammit. Keeps freezing the stream…

Me to TV: Oh shit! Thomas is getting the living crap beat out of him!! Dude, Mason MOVE YOUR ASS!! Go get someone you freakin’ idiot!

(Stream freezes again.)

Me to TV: STOP IT!!! YOU’RE RUINING EVERYTHING!! WORK, GODDAMN YOU…!!!

(The stream freezes one last time, jiggles, pops and goes on seamlessly once more.)

Me to TV: And about fucking time! Now. Where were we. Oh. Yeah. Mason just standing there like an asshat while Thomas bleeds all over the place for him.

Me to TV: Oh…Carson and baby Sybil…how gross-cute is thaaaaaat?

Marty: Ahhhh you’re killing me. What part are you at?

Me to TV: Damn. Forgot Marty…

Me Text: Butler and the baby. Thomas just beat up. Anna about to show her stuff, I bet.

Marty: Carson and the baby is the fucking cutest thing ever.

Me Text: OMG. So cute ๐Ÿ™‚

Me to TV: And Mrs. Hughes. I love them. They need to follow THAT love story line. It was TOTALLY there during the cancer scare and then just dropped off to nothing immediately.(Laughing and repeating) Mrs. Hughes: Lovely to see you cherish the wee bairn. Carson: No need to get all sentimental about it…

Me to TV: Men. In. Kilts. Thank you God. And Julian Fellows…

Me to TV: Who’d have thunk there could be someone to try and out-O’Brien, O’Brien?! It’s like evil, squared!

Me Text: Shit. That’s a good slug of whiskey.

Me to TV: Shit. I want a good slug of whiskey…

Me to TV: Oh, here it comes!

Me Text: Anna ๐Ÿ™‚

Me to TV: Lookit him look at her…lookit that faaaace. Ohhh…and how he says that thing about…Go! Go and make babies you two!! I demand it!!

Me to TV: …And the part where Mrs. Patmore doesn’t get, at all, that she is being “used.” Stupid women…

Me Text: Alfred’s gonna be the new cook I bet. Geeze they are packing this episode FULL.

Marty: They have so much to cover. But I love that Mrs. Patmore is like, “Of course a man can cook!!”

Me to TV: What are you doing? Who do you think you are you little…Back it uuuup! Back! It! Up!

Me Text: GET AWAY FROM BRANSON U SLUT!

Marty: I KNOW!!!! HE’S SYBIL’S AND ALWAYS WILL BE.

Me Text: I know!!! Oh. Contractions!

Me to TV: … And so it begins. What new hell have you in store for us now, Downton Abbey…?

Me to TV: Meanwhile, of course. Have to “replace” the spirited dead daughter with another person who wants to be just like her, only is annoying, cuz she ISN’T her.

Me Text: I don’t want Rose at Downton. Dammit.

Me to TV: Oh. Mrs. Hughes. Can I keep you? I love that woman. So much. She’s just the best of everything that is good. Listen to her Branson, she knows what’s what.

Me Text: Mrs. Hughes…such a good woman.

Marty: I love her so much. She’s so smart and observant.

Me to TV: Shut up! I’m not crying just cuz he is…and she’s all there and comforting him and…shut up!

Me Text: I know. Baby Born!

Me to TV: Well. That was anti-climatic. Which just means some NEW kind of awful will be taking place. It won’t be Branson now…so is it the house? Is it one of the 11 romances flying through the air? Is it something at the Scottish castle? If something happens to Anna or Bates, I’m gonna kill myself… DAMMIT, Downton, you EXHAUST ME!

Me to TV: Dear Matthew, WHY do you INSIST on seeing “good” in that bitch wife of yours? She’s awful.

Me to TV: (Repeating with a scoff) Mary: I wish everyone else could see me the way you do, and not the way Edith and other people do… THEN STOP BEING A BITCH, MARY. IT’S KINDA REALLY EASY!

Me to TV: Driving. Driving fast. Oh shit…

Me Text:–Driving fast. Shit. No. Shit.

(Aaaaaan the whole Downton world implodes. With it’s eyes wide open, lying in a ditch. I actually, physically, stand up.)

Me to TV: FUCK! YOU! JULIAN! FELLOWS!!!!

Me Text: FUCK YOU, JULIAN FELLOWS!!!!

Marty: Bad. Bad. Bad.

Me to TV: Are you FUCKING KIDDING ME??!?!?!

Marty: (Like she could hear me.) RIGHT?!??! IT’S NOT OKAY!

Me Text: FUCK. YOU.

Me to TV: …I can’t even…SERIOUSLY??!?!

Me Text: Fuck! Yoooooooou!!!

(Inward sob.)

Marty: Apparently we have to say that to Matthew. He didn’t renew his contract cause he wanted to move on so they had to kill him. BUT IT’S STILL NOT OKAY.

Me Text: Fuck them all!!!

Marty: Fuuuuuuuucccckk it. How could he do that to us?!?!?

Me to TV: Stupid Actors, and their stupid careers!!!

Me Text: I am a Hulk of anger!!!! SMASH!!!!

Marty: Rrrrraaaahhhh!!!

(I sulk on the couch and yell at the credits rolling on the TV.)

Marty: You got so happy didn’t you. So fucking happy and then they took your heart and ripped it out.

Me Text: Those bastards.

Marty: And we have 10 fucking months until the next one.

Me Text: Fuck. Fuck. Just. Fuck.

***

…Which soon after ended our correspondence because I felt I needed to go to bed…being almost midnight-thirty.

…But then, I was too wound up to sleep (of course.) So instead, stayed up til 2 a.m. watching every. freakin. piece. of. supplemental. Downton. materials. I. could. find.

…Until I finally, finally fell asleep.

…And that’s the way it went down. In real-time.

The end.

~D

Adventures In Sleeping

29 Aug

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Woke up this morning with the fitted sheet all balled up in the bottom corner pocket, my pillow on the floor, and my mouth guard laying next to me.ย  I either had really amazing dream-sex or a fight with zombies. I’d like to hope not both, but you never know what may happen. Either way, I don’t remember any of it…which is always weird to me now.

…It didn’t used to be like that.

For a little over a decade I never remembered my dreams at all…cuz I was really traumatized with probably the most horrifying nightmare ever, after the death of a friend in 8th grade. So I did everything I consciously (and unconsciously) could, just to wipe ’em all away. The “good” with the “bad.” And outside of an occasional flicker, I never remembered them at all. Not the theme, not the starring players, not what went down…nothing. Just faded snapshots every now and then.

Turns out, that isn’t really the most healthy thing.

When I started therapy, my Shrink warned that sometimes it can bring on kinda crazy dreams, and I should “prepare myself.” To which I smirked that I had brain-parts of STEEL (obviously, otherwise why else would I be in therapy?), and such things just never really “affect” me.

…So you can imagine my surprise when within a week, floating heads of my dead Ancestors would hover next to me, in a world that looked roughly like something Picasso or Dali would have painted, and all my teeth kept falling out. Totally normal and not freaky at all for your first time dream-scaping since you were 13.

The more we dug and tore at all my problems, the stranger they became. Like constant little acid trips every time I drifted off…which, coincidentally, is the first time I ever developed insomnia. I became literally too terrified to close my eyes. Four, twelve, sixteen dreams would collide all at the same time, all with these intense emotions and circumstances that never made sense…and all with a constant underlying terror at the base of them, which could never be explained.

…Eventually, of course, I managed to work it all out, in the little sorting machine of “strange” up in m’head…and as I got “better,” my night adventures did too. In time I managed to sleep like a human again. Without screaming myself awake. Or finding finger nail digs in the palm of my hand every morning. In time I was flashing back to childhood memories that were the good kind, fantasizing new ice cream flavors, having dinner with my BFF Meryl Streep, winning the Pulitzer, and running for President.

…You know…normal stuff, like that.

Then it calmed down to a trickle…only once in a great while sticking with me beyond that first three minutes or so, after being ripped awake by the alarm clock.

I don’t remember my dreams much anymore at all, now. Only an exceptional few.

…Not because I block them…just because, well…because “I don’t,” I guess. Waking up this morning, and seeing the condition of my bed, just kinda got me thinking: how in the hell can anyone sleep through all that? Then I remembered, I used to do it all the time.

Even when I was “awake,” if you get my drift.

…It’s not that I want to necessarily experience absolutely every trip I go on, every night. My brain prob’ly protects me from any number of horror night-sweats on a regular basis…(induced no doubt from lack of chocolate.)

…But it also means I’m missing out on prime story-telling plot I could really be using right now. Free creative stuff that doesn’t count as “stealing” if the episode is super limited and only shown to the viewing audience in my head, that one time. I’m not saying that I’d want to experience nightmares like a Jack the Ripper attack, or those kind where you’re naked and confused in the produce aisle, looking for butter again. (Look, don’t judge me okay…I don’t make fun of your little “freaknesses.”)

…I’m saying: if it was all about me being a Super Spy, or goin’ at it on some grassy knoll with Colin Firth, and I find out about it? I’m gonna be pissed!

…That’s all.

~D

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