That damn kid came back last night, just before midnight. I thought once I died, I wouldn't have to scream at kids to stop messin' around in my yard.
I think he's Pentacostal cuz he was talkin' in tongues or somethin' weird. Then again, it coulda been that God-awful music (I think it was music) he was playin' on his little radio. One of the songs kept sayin', "Bela Lugosi's dead." Wow - there's an update, asshole! Thanks for lettin' me know that so quickly. Jesus.
But here's the worst part. The kid starts chanting something about me risin', or gettin' a rise outta me or somethin', and then CUTS OPEN HIS HAND AND BLEEDS ALL OVER MY GRAVE! Yeah, that got a rise outta me! What in the hell? How is that polite? How is that sanitary? I don't want his blood on me! I'm dead but that don't mean I won't catch whatever bug he's got. Hell, dead people may can get HIV. How the hell do I know?
Apparently whatever he was tryin' to do didn't work (his words - I thought the goal was to make a dead man wanna stand up and kick him in the Happy Stick until some color flushed back into him, and I'd say that goal was reached!) so he said he'd come back later with friends (people like that have friends? there's multiples of his kind that are allowed to congregate unsupervised and unmedicated?)
Been gettin' to know my other neighbors. There's a hot little slab o' dead and sexy buried just to my north and I ain't seein' nothin' on that tombstone akin to the abbreviation, "Mrs." (and even if I did - hey, to death to us part, right?) She's a sweet young 71, too, and apparently back in her day, worked burlesque.
More later. I'm gonna go a-courtin'! Wish me luck.