The Cogito Itself

The same four people continue to come to my funeral no matter how many times I die.

The man with the elk tattoo on one of his arms. The woman who’s prettier than your wildest dreams. The other two who aren’t really worth mentioning.

At my first funeral the man with the elk tattoo on one of his arms sat in the back of the church and the woman who’s prettier than your wildest dreams sat in the front. But with each subsequent funeral the man with the elk tattoo moves a little closer to the woman who’s prettier than your wildest dreams as though he isn’t doing it on purpose. He likes her because she’s prettier than your wildest dreams–which is a weird way to describe her beauty but whatever–and that’s really all men care about. She could be a wicked individual; she may have killed me for all he knows.

I don’t want him to go near her because I don’t like him and it bugs me that he’s doing that (it also bugs me that he keeps coming to my funeral). But if I keep dying because she keeps killing me, maybe I do after all.