Why I keep writing…

So apparently my sister was out to dinner the other night with friends and family and my blog came up.  Somehow people got on the topic of the story about how my mother buried the wrong cat.  Pumpkin, our little, furry whore from a decade ago. 

It’s a great story, but I already told it.  But then my sister told me:

“Yeah, so Mom was all, ‘And there your brother was, like Christ, carrying Pumpkin over his shoulder like a sacrificial lamb in the yard.'”

“Wait.  She compared our younger brother TO JESUS?”  I’m still sitting here, a day later trying to figure out three things that my brother has in common with Christ.  And I’m still blanking, and I’m pretty fucking creative.

“Yeah.  And she said she knows you’re going to write about it one day.”

Umm.  Yeah.  I was going to.  And why wouldn’t I?  God, they make it so fucking easy sometimes.  

And so now I have to change the story title from, “The Time Linda Buried the Wrong Cat” to “The Day My Brother Was Jesus” because really, doesn’t everyone have a good story like that??

As I compose something tonight worth reading, that’s my tidbit of the day.  This shit really doesn’t ever get old.