Planning My Funeral

I was gifted the name Jett by my father, “Jazz.” I prefer to be referred to by Kevin, my middle name. Not to say that Jett is a shitty fucking name–although it is–I just like Kevin a hell of a lot more. That’s why I made it up. With my show boating fuck of a father’s gracious permission, I’m the head funeral director (on a team of two) at the Clark Family Children’s Funeral Home. We are, quite possibly, the world’s first children only funeral home. Just on the horizon line of Bloomington lies Berries’ largest children’s hospital, a dark hole where innocence is being suffocated on a daily basis. The worst part is that they’re the good guys. The fact that these children can smile and I can’t says a whole lot. Either they know something I don’t, or they’re trying to fill some sort of quota before being transferred to the Jade-Leona Children’s Cemetery. It’s like a metaphor for the schooling system. All the children are kept neatly separated in their own little fucking boxes until they’re a goddamn zombie. Except instead of becoming a dick like me, they’re just dead.

Fuck this.

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