(no subject)
Note to all people over a certain age in New York!
Dying in your armchair with the radiators blaring and a German Shepherd dog (which, who DOES that? In New York! In an apartment the size of a postage stamp? Like, serious amounts of subway away from a park) is a prime way to have your dog eat your face and only get discovered two weeks after death because the mail has started to pack up. Good call on the catalogues, by the way, reaally don't want to make it months here.
Because the smell? Has cleaned out my mortuary. No one wants to work on Stinky El Stinka, dead woman who looks like a hunk of meatloaf.
The drowning victims might look like raisins, but at least they don't smell.
The best part is, this woman has a great-niece, who wants her to look 'normal'. Uh, lady? There is no normal ever. We could go with interesting, we could go with closed casket, you have two options. And I'm really not keen on the idea of young kids getting an eyeful of this woman, even after I panstick the hell all over the stitches.
I am so over violent death this week involving animals. Or parts. I'm declaring an amnesty; have any corpses to hand in, now is the time to do so.
...And I really am not in the mood for watching the marathon of horror movies I TiVoed this week. Dudes, I am missing catching up on classics. Unimpressed. I'm going to make flapjacks, and make Irma teach me to knit again.