Open Letter to the Ugly Old Hag Who Is Directly Responsible for My Wife Coming Home in Tears.
Dear You:
When you die, all that will matter to the worms is how much meat you managed to keep on your vicious, self-important carcass. They will not give one good goddamn how much money you had or who you spent it on and they will not give one good goddamn for any petty, biting attitude your cells might still be whispering even after your higher brain functions ceased. They will digest and excrete you and the enrichment those remains impart to the soil will be significantly more likely to produce something beautiful than any of the comments you felt compelled to share with my wife as she graciously drove you where you needed to go.
Unless you’ve chosen to be cremated. The fire that consumes you and the urn you end up resting within will care even less and the worst you will be able to do to anybody again might be to cause a massive coughing fit when one of your drunken heirs knocks you off the mantle.
Oh, I’m sure you’ve done a lot of good with your donations. Maybe you’ll even get your name on a small brass plaque somewhere.
People will remember your money as wonderful.
They will remember you as a nasty old aristocrat who somehow thought that giving away her wealth substituted for basic human decency.
And I’ll tell ya, lady, that I spent almost six months of my life analyzing and deconstructing Dickens’ A Christmas Carol, so I have some sense of what I speak.
I hope the next unfortunate soul you pull this nonsense on comes back at you like a volcano. I hope they Pompeii your ass.
Enjoy the rest of your life. I can’t imagine many people around you will.
Sincerely,
Me.
Creative Control 