I don't really remember the day I was born...or

I don't really remember the day I was born...or the day I died for that matter. So I suppose we'll have to skip past all that and get to the real story. Not that there's

much to it. Eating, sleeping, working. That was pretty much it for seventy years. My obit was three words. "He was okay." No plot at all. However, my influence on others was

nada zilch нет, as if I never existed. I never once got weird with it, cocked a snoot, or rode the wave fantastic. Noone tripped over my shadow on my passing. But now that I'm dead

I wish someone would notice- my associates, my boss, anyone. This morning, my wife yelled at my side of the bed she was working late. It's been 3 days-when will SHE realize I died?

Most of that time I've spent decomposing, which is like watching grass grow from the dirt's perspective. It's bad enough that my wife called the smell an improvement to my hygien.

But did she really had to dress me in a mankini, now the whole world will know the drapes don't match the curtains. With my body now inanimate I couldn't do anything but watch as

she encased me in a glass coffin and made a masoleum and museum in my humor and shame. The mankini manikin, the joke of the town, the fuel to my slow boiling bloodlust and rage.

Effects to attract visitors. There was record attendance at the museum of unusual objects. I waited until the place closed, broke the glass and opened a window, then closed it. Fre

edom, the contraversial display of a window that was not quite open but not quite closed (since a full grown man could fit through the shards of glass) went on to win many awards.