Last night, I was in a funk. I've been fairly depressed, even for me, the last two weeks. When I say fairly depressed, I don't mean my usual walking around looking like an extra from the Boulevard of Broken Dreams. I mean, suddenly and without warning bursting into tears in my apartment much to the disturbance of my cat.


Last night, I went to visit Mu thinking that hanging out with her had to be healthier than sitting on my couch trying to get over a crying jag. As we were sitting there having our tea, a young fireman came in with some posters. "Mind if I put some of these posters up?" We could tell just from looking at them the posters were for a frundraiser for someon fireman who died during 9-11. "Sure," Mu said. The fireman disappeared into the back while we kept talking. About five minutes later, he waved on his way out.


After about an hour, I began to wonder, "Where did he put those posters?" I couldn't see any of them up. Not by the pool table or the dj booth certainly. I took a quick stroll around. No posters. I even peeked in the bathrooms. No posters.


It wasn't until I ventured into one of the bathroom stalls that I discovered where he put up the posters. There staring at me, intentionally placed at eye level, was the face of the dead fireman and the Twin Towers.


When I die, or even if I should contract some horrible and bizarre disease, and all y'all decide to do some fundraiser for me, you are absolutely forbidden to posters up in the bathrooms. Especially if my face is on 'em. It's just plain creepy.