Category: Young-adulthood

The Farting Serial Killer

Sarah Leave a comment

Before the funeral,
Mom said,
“Could you write a poem, please?”
My worst and dreary dread—
words to say at the funeral?
I’d rather stay in bed.

How could I describe you, my perfect muse?
Just kidding—SNOOZE!
It’s more fun to frolic; play; and tease.
Like we used to on the driveway,
before the crash,
the fire,
turned you to as—
NO.
NO.
NO!

I’m there again. I need to leave.

A funeral poem, for you:
“Your beauty,
your grace,
your ugly face.”

HA!
Misdirection,
my insurrection;
words I’ll never say.

I guess, some things are good now?
We no longer clash,
BUT YOUR BODY IS ASH,
FROM THE CRAS—
No!
I can’t continue on.
How about I write a song?

“When snowflakes fall, I’ll think of your face,
lighting up with joy.
Never mind—poke, poke, poke!
I miss having you to annoy.”

It’s funeral time—
I’m not ready!
Not ready for the world to see.
Not ready to recite,
I lack the foresight,
to discuss your absence in life.

I’d rather stick to my lyrics;
they’ll stay in my head,
as you’ll stay in our hearts.
Remember how embarrassed you got by farts?

And just like that, I have a story to tell, I do!
Did you hear about the Farting Serial Killer, did you?
He couldn’t get close to his victims,
his name was Stu.

Stu wanted more than anything; the thing he wanted most: to kill.
It would be his lifelong thrill.

I know you don’t think farts are funny, but listen, won’t you?
Stu, his gas, it got in the way.
Then one day….
He achieved his first slay!

What’s that? Sirens outside?
The Po-Po were on Stu right quick.
Stu ran to the bushes,
plopped his butt down,
ready to wait for a while.

That’s when he felt it:
Taco Bell.
Moving;
building in his insides.

Stu had a choice:
to hold it, or let it come forward like a shout?
Stu couldn’t resist—
he pushed it out!

The fart rang out from the bushes,
calling attention to come.
Stu went to prison,
and never again saw the sun.

You died.
NO!
NO!
Too sad.

This is supposed to be my poem for you,
and it’s wrapped up with Stu.
It’s not fit for a funeral;
what words would ever be?
I’d rather distract myself with Stu,
and make up silly poems of you.

Afterward:

I read this poem to Mom.

Mom sighed and said,
“Just recite a psalm.”

How to say goodbye

Sarah Leave a comment

My sister Melissa died over a decade ago. She was 23 when she died in a plane crash; I was 21.

After Melissa died, I began writing Adventures with Vrah. One of the first comics I wrote depicts a conversation with a friend.

In the early days after Melissa’s death, I felt a huge amount of jealousy toward people who got to say goodbye to people they love.

I had wanted to hold my sister; protect her body; tell her it was going to be OK, even though that makes no sense. Melissa died thousands of miles away from me. I never saw her body. I couldn’t say goodbye.

Before Melissa died, she adopted a cat named Snibbles. Snibbles lived with Melissa for around three years, then with my parents for the next fifteen.

We put Snibbles down a few months ago.

Snibbles had been near the end for a while. She weighed 3 pounds. She stopped eating, including her favorite snack, whipped cream. Snibbles wouldn’t take her kidney or thyroid medication. She was often agitated and confused.

Between these weak moments, Snibbles would display sparks of determination—sticking her head under running water in the sink (but not drinking). When I opened the freezer, she put her head in. When I loaded the dishwasher, she crawled in, hurrying to the back, willing me to close the door.

I said to my husband, “The cat’s looking for creative ways to kill herself.”

At the end of life, is the ability to scream and cry, to hold someone you love, a gift? Or is it just something that haunts you? With Snibbles, I watched her decline for years, then watched her die. I watched her get grey hair and cataracts. With my sister, it was BOOM—dead.

Weirdly, is it a good thing that I never saw her dying or dead?

In writer and journalist Dina Gachman’s memoir, “So Sorry for Your Loss”, she talks about helpful and unhelpful condolences. When someone old dies, Gachman suggests that the words: “They lived a long life” are unhelpful.

I’ve used those words before. Logically, everything dies. It feels lucky—is lucky—to have a long life. As survivors, we find a way to feel gratitude for time together. We find gratitude for the life of the people and things we love. We endure, perhaps even accept, their absence. But, as a person who loved a cat who enjoyed a long life, I can understand why the condolence may hurt:

I don’t feel grateful for Snibbles’s long life right now. Right now, it feels intolerable to say goodbye. I really miss her. I wish she hadn’t died. Right now, I’d much rather hear a funny story or talk about her fluffiness.

The morning we went in to put Snibbles down, the vet sat us comfortably in a back room. We had time to wait for my husband to come from work. The vet lit a candle and gave us a green blanket to put on our laps. We each took a turn holding Snibbles. When my turn came, she didn’t want to be held. She got up and splayed out on the cold floor. My dad got down on the floor with her.

I kept trying out words to say to Snibbles; my big, sweeping goodbye:

“Thank you for taking care of Melissa.”
“Thank you for taking care of my parents.”
“It’s going to be OK, Pequita.” (One of her many nicknames).

The words sounded dumb coming out of my mouth. How could I possibly summarize what she means to me, right this second? Snibbles used to respond to me by flicking her tail or saying marcow (her version of meow) or nodding her head. This time, nothing. This is it; this is goodbye?

As my dad held Snibbles’s paw, the vet gave the shot.

Jeff

Sarah 16 Comments

I got the idea to call my dead sister’s cell phone from the movie P.S. I Love You. In the film, a woman calls her dead husband’s cell phone over and over.

It was the saddest thing I’d ever seen.

When my sister Melissa died, I called her constantly.

I sobbed when she didn’t answer.

I sobbed listening to her voicemail and I obsessed.

I pulled my family into it.

It was a little funny.

During one of my routine calls to Melissa, something weird happened.

Something that barged in on my pity party.

Something that introduced me to Jeff.

I hung up on him.

My beloved calling routine was taken from me by Jeff, aided by the dicks over at Verizon.

As pack leader, it was my job to ensure my younger brother and sister knew how to react.

Fueled by “coping-with-depression-via-alcohol,” I made another call.

I gauged his reaction to a drunk dial.

He seemed game.

Jeff and I connected immediately.

But I had the right number. And it was Jeff’s.

We had a beautiful summer together.

I couldn’t wait to get him on the line for a rip-roaring chat.

Classic Jeff.

I don’t remember much of our conversations.

What I do remember is the excitement when Jeff answered the phone.

If my life was a movie, Jeff getting Melissa’s phone number would have been one of those silver-lining things you hear about when people die. Like Jeff and I were supposed to meet. And Melissa dying was the only way that could happen.

A few months into my new routine with Jeff, I got a text from an unknown number.

My life isn’t exactly like a sad movie.

Author’s Note: This story was originally posted in 2017. I’m including this story in my book (Death, Depression, and Diarrhea). I’m sharing it with you so you can get a sneak peek of the redrawn art!

The Snibbles Snowball: why I lied about my dead sister’s cat

Sarah 2 Comments

I lied to a lot of hairdressers after my sister died. 

I never meant to lie. Melissa’s death was sudden and awkwardly made me the oldest child. In the weeks and months (and even years) after she died, I would panic during small talk.

The words came out before I could stop them. My sister used to live in Kalispell.

The words hung in the air.

Maybe not.

I don’t know the polite answer. Imagine if I told the truth.

Imagine if I tried to over-explain.

Alienating.

A few years later, I moved to Washington, D.C. for a job. Meeting new people gave me lots of opportunities to improve my answers.

I still panicked.

Sometimes people asked questions about my siblings, which meant discussing Melissa. How did I deal? By playing dodgeball.

I wasn’t good at dodgeball.

Before she died, Melissa adopted a cat named Snibbles. Melissa made a Facebook page for Snibbles, like all responsible pet owners.  

Rolland was my first new friend in D.C. and he noticed I was friends with Snibbles on Facebook.

My parents adopted Snibbles when Melissa died.

Rolland didn’t know I had a sister who died. He didn’t know Snibbles was Melissa’s cat and nobody had access to her Facebook page.

Probably because I lied about it.

I ignored the situation until my birthday. My birthday was two weeks after I moved to D.C.

Rolland was my first new friend.

Should I risk alienating him?

Admitting a lie about my dead sister’s cat seemed like I might return to zero friends.

I tried guessing the password. It couldn’t be that hard.

It was that hard.

Besides being my first new friend, Rolland was also my colleague. He sat next to me in the office every day. It felt really important to know the password because Snibbles was making me look like a dick.

I tried playing dodgeball.

To my delight, Rolland played along. 

It felt nice to blame Snibbles.

At some point in our friendship, Rolland learned about my sister and the plane crash that killed her. I did not tell him Snibbles was her cat.

I told Rolland the truth about Snibbles four years later over text message when we no longer lived in the same place or worked together.

It’s probably too late to come clean to the hairdresser.

What 6ft looks like in Montana

Sarah

Author’s Note:

I’m from Montana. As COVID-19 cases continue to rise, I created these comics to help fellow Montanans recognize what 6 feet looks like for physical distancing, written and drawn using examples from our state.

These comics are available in poster format with a free digital download. Hang up the poster at your office, business, or at home! If you’d like a bigger, fancier version, you can purchase a poster here.

You can also donate to help poster distribution in the community!

What to do when you get your butthole touched by a child on the street, part 3

Sarah Leave a comment

 

Read PART ONE

Read PART TWO

 

Nothing prepares you for having your butthole touched by a child.

The day I got my butthole touched, I’d been racing around Jaipur, happy as a clam in my zebra-stripe yoga pants.

*(When we walked by, this monkey was staring at us with an erect penis. Unimportant to the story, but I needed you to know).

Since I get nervous after dark in new places, we planned to return to our hostel before sunset.

But when the time came….

The problem with watching sunset is that once that sun sets, the sun has set.

That’s my “I’m being calm” face.

Back on the streets of Jaipur, we decided to Uber. Uber would be faster than taking the bus.  

Or not.

Like an empanada, I was starting to sweat. Past assaults crossed my mind—would I get punched? My breast grabbed?

My anxiety is deaf to logic.

Waiting for Uber, two kids flanked us. With my pre-worries, I felt ready for anything.

Cloudy with a chance of assault?

One hundred percent chance of butthole-touching.

More than that, this kid had swiped right on the entire length of my crotch, ending at my butthole.

Say it tain’t so.

Uber arrived. Five stars?

During all three assaults, my husband was right there with me. What happened to safety in numbers?

With butt-touching children amidst, I decided to obscure the target zone.

Luckily sweatpants are very on-trend.

Like I did after the face-punch and the boob-grab incidents, I shared my story.

Punny.

Eight-year-olds are sexually repressed in India?

Ok.

To be fair, I had thought the same.

For future safety, I asked my husband a favor:

That’d be great. 

Summary: What to do…

When you get punched in the face by a stranger, go to dinner. Eat even if you’re crying. Afterward, go to a show (it doesn’t have to be about post-partum depression).

When you get a boob grabbed by a burn-victim tween, keep riding your bike. Take selfies.

When you get a finger up your butt by a child, take an Uber home and eat curry for dinner. Order something special—treat yo’ self!

Spend time with people who make you feel safe, secure, and loved. Laugh, joke, and cry at the situation.

Be kind to yourself. I always believed that if threatened, I would fight. After reading more about the psychology of fear, I now understand that humans often freeze or flee when threatened. We rarely fight. My reactions, although foreign to me, were normal.

Your trauma is your trauma. Assault can happen in different forms and intensities. Finding terminology to describe your experiences can feel awkward. I still struggle to categorize mine. Sometimes, I feel like I am overstating if I use the terms assault or sexual assault—seems unfair to people who have experienced more serious trauma. Ultimately, there’s no sense in comparison.

Bottom line: life is weird. Talking with someone you trust about the weird stuff helps. Talking helps even if it’s embarrassing, even if it’s hard to categorize, even if it’s having your butthole touched by a child on the street.