My Grandmother Died And All I Got Was This Lousy T-Shirt
Even bad people deserve good presents.
Are you kidding me, Nanna? I know you’re dead, but that’s no excuse for playing favorites. Cousin Sally inherits your diamond brooch, Aunt Janine gets your grand piano, and all I get is this lousy t-shirt? Is it because I never called? You were practically deaf!
And it’s so stretched out. I know we’re both buxom, but I wear out my shirts a lot higher than you ever did. Be honest, is that what you really left me? Breasts destined to droop into my cereal bowl? A lifetime of chronic back pain?
Do you at least have a few spare pills hidden somewhere? I already checked the medicine cabinet, your nightstands, and every drawer in the kitchen. I’m not picky — anything that can be crushed up with a lighter and smoked over a piece of foil would serve me just fine. You must have something stronger than those expired Tylenol, right?
My head is killing me right now. I can’t take another minute here. When my buddy Kiki’s grandmother died, he got to fly to Hawaii and miss an entire week of work. But you had to die locally and hold your funeral on a holiday Monday — and you didn’t even give us any notice!
I know you saw this coming. Ever since the doctor diagnosed you with cancer (or was it heart failure? I forget. Definitely one of those old-person problems), you had to know your time was running out. You must remember all those tests I didn’t drive you to and all of those results I never inquired about. Clearly this was no surprise. You had plenty of time to get me something a lot nicer than a worn-out t-shirt.
I know you didn’t drive, but you could have ordered something for me online or even off the TV, if the computer was too much for your tired old brain. Let’s be honest, anything you bought me would have sucked but at least I could have sold it for beer money. This t-shirt won’t even fetch me a single can. And, believe me, I tried.
You couldn’t possibly understand what it’s like to need money because you had a job all your life. While I beg strangers for spare change, you paid for your burial plot in cash. Apparently, you had enough money to treat yourself to a private six-foot hole but nothing to leave to your eighth favorite granddaughter.
What exactly did I do to piss you off? You hardly even knew me. Do you even know how many tattoos I have or the people I share needles with? When was the last time I even visited? Any bad blood between us has to stem from when I was a kid and I was forced to spend time with you. If you had gotten to know me as an adult, you’d know that I’m worth a lot more than a saggy t-shirt.
But far be it from me to hold a grudge. This is on you. So don’t come haunting when the guilt of your crappy present interferes with your eternal rest. You bought your precious hole in the ground. Now you’ll have to lie in it.
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