Trying to have a conversation with my aunt anymore is like trying to talk with a possessed Sigourney Weaver in GHOSTBUSTERS. “There is no JoAnn, only cancer.” Here’s a few fun things we talked about at hospice today!

ME: *not saying anything, just minding my own business and working*
HER: FRANKIE WILL JUST YOU SHUT THE HELL UP?

HER: *incoherent rambling*
ME: Can you repeat that? I didn’t hear you.
HER: FRANKIE IS GOING TO BLOW UP.

ME: What’s the matter?
HER: Frankie did something.
ME: What did Frankie do?
HER: *incoherent rambling*
ME: Did Frankie do something good? Or did Frankie do something bad?
HER: BAD.
ME: What did Frankie do bad?
HER: EVERYTHING.

ME: OK. I’m going to go home now. I’ll see you tomorrow. Love you.
HER: *incoherent rambling*
ME: What was that?
HER: GET THE HELL OUT OF HERE.
ME: …
ME: I– OK. I’m going. I love you.
HER: …
ME: I love you.
HER: …
ME: I love you. Do you love me?
HER: NO.

(Hey! This was my 300th post on this blog! Woo! I’m going to go drink to forget now.)

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