Snookered

I'm going to my grandmother's funeral on mothers day. It was going to be my grandmother's 90th birthday this upcoming mothers day. Her mom died in childbirth. Is that even ironic? It feels like the most perverted joke. It makes me sad to think about all the women who have died in childbirth. I bet the sex wasn't even good. Having a nine month countdown to your possible mortality, all while you're mildly sick. And then followed by the most intense pain anyperson can ever experience, your ugly baby with its squeezed out head emerges, and then you fucking die! 

I have this terrible personality flaw, where I can't accept things that aren't fair. My head replays these realities over and over. Like I'm missing some important clue. Or if I go over it enough I can actually change it. I still fantasize about proving to the only person who's ever broken up with me, that they made the biggest mistake of their lives. How emotionally stuck must I be!!! On that same loop, I haven't accepted my grandmother's death. I've cried. But even when I'm crying my mind is blank. 

A series of events led to her death. It wasn't a natural cause. How many 89 year olds die of unnatural causes. I have a somewhat disturbed pride in that fact. Other times I have just a regular disturbed feeling about it. 

I keep reminding myself that she had an amazing life. Traveled everywhere. Had all the money she wanted/needed. She showed me you could have an amazing second act. Her life drastically improved around the time she was 40. A second childhood, except this time with money and freedom. She has a photo with Nixon, in which she always exclaimed how “snookered” she was. She was in the masters' pageant. She had four kids. Every object she owned was either glamorous or artsy. She had a collection of everything. She enjoyed her own company more than other people. She was sexual. She was an artist.