I Blame Genetics

In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “Cousin It.” –  While I would like to take full credit for being the only authentic weirdo in my family – I am not. When your grandmother insists you watch ‘Pet Cemetery’ with her, and then takes you to a cemetery when you are all but 6 years old, she takes the cake. We also, on the same evening, did a drive by of the man she was having an affair with, and suggested I get out of the car and throw a brick through the bedroom window of his bed ridden dying wife.

But as she is now sitting in a home for the mentally frail, I am the second runner up for the crazy of the family. I inherited my endearing grandmother’s fondness for the macabre and for saying wildly inappropriate things at the worst possible times. Seldom intelionally.

As my mother’s sisters funeral, a lady with epilepsy had a seizure while in her electric wheelchair. In the first part of her seizure she flipped the switch on the chair and she bee lined straight into a crowd of people. It was the visual that initially had me laughing, but added to the time and place, it just seemed even funnier. Had my grandmother been there, we would both have laughed equally as hard.

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