Conversations With …part deux

My sister via text while I was in my tower on a hot, hot day.

me: I brain dead roasted

sister: perfect. I can’t imagine…its grossly hot. and you’re slowly cooking yourself like a super slow microwave.

me: Like the fun cooker

sister: ewww.  so you’re probably internally aging like an astronaut…

me: is that what happens up there…in…space?

sister: yes…they age so quickly…like crazy…that’s why they have to exercise for two to three hours every day up there…

me: I don’t want to go up there then.

sister: I do…when I’m dead…shot into space to disintegrate

me: would u disintegrate before u cleared the atmosphere? Then bits of you would rain down.  That would be nice.

sister: Yes, wouldn’t it?

me: I want one of my turds petrified & then shot into space.

sister: Hac! How about some bloody tampons?

me: but the rest of me buried.  No coffin. Shallow grave. I want bugs & beasts to have their fill.   EXCELLENT IDEA!!(re:tampons) I’ll start saving them now!

sister: ahhh, don’t you dare blog this.

me: and I want them glued together in a likeness of me.

sister: like a lady gaga meat dress?

me: more like a statue of me.

sister: that’s it.  I’m stopping sending you ideas.


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