Your Friendly Neighborhood Cemetery

If you live in a big city (or probably any city for that matter), you more likely than not have observed the phenomenon of urban cemeteries.  Not being a historian of any sort myself, I can only assume that these plots were originally suburban graveyards that were swallowed up in urban sprawl.  After all, who would  intentionally plan to put a bunch of dead people on prime real estate?  Look at the ancient Egyptians.  They dumped their bodies in the desert, albeit in very elaborate tombs.  As royal and rich as they might have been, not even the pharaohs were getting buried any place that might potentially have condos on it one day. 

Personally, I find urban cemeteries creepy.  I'm not a superstitious person. Hell, whether or not I believe in God really depends on how I'm feeling that day.  I'm equally divided in a belief in the afterlife.  I don't have any proof of it, but I don't have any proof to the contrary either.  I'm not particularly sure that I would even want proof.  Mostly because it would involve seeing someone dead in a setting that does not involve a) a funeral home, b) a video will or c)their corpse being poked with a stick. 

I won't lie. It would freak me out.  I don't care who it is and I don't care how benevolent the visitation might be. I want a dead human in my house (corporeal or incorporeal) about as much as I want a dead skunk in my house.  Unless the dead human happens to be one of a number of ex-bosses, in which case I'd mount the skull on the porch as a warning to intruders.

But just to be on the safe side, I've informed a number of family members that I'd prefer not to enjoy their company after they are deceased.  It wouldn't be anything personal . . .in most cases.  Anyway, I think 40 or 50 years together is a good run.  I hate it when the living overstay their welcome.  Can you imagine having that one annoying aunt or uncle rattling chains or whatnot in your hallways all night and having to, yet again, figure out a polite way to tell them to get the fuck out?   Death should be the end of clueless, pushy relatives. There are no messages from beyond the grave that are of any import to me except maybe those regarding money, and even then only in the form of cash or jewelry.  In which case, a note or a map taped to the refrigerator will be sufficient and a second visit will not be warranted.

That being said, I think it makes sense that I have even less desire to see some random ghostly mofo traipsing around my house or apartment than I do a deceased relative. So living in close proximity to any cemetery is probably out of the question for me. I don't care how nice the neighborhood is otherwise.  Even if there are no such things as ghosts, the bottom line is there is basically a field of rotting corpses across the street. I don't know about anyone else, but that isn't really a big selling point for me. 

Plus I've been wrong about a lot of things in my life.  I'd rather not find out the hard way that I've been wrong about this too via a shrieking severed head floating over my bed every night at exactly 1:51a.m.   Believe me, with my luck, this is  the sort of manifestation I'd get. Honestly, if it was going to be doing that anyway, I 'd just go ahead and request it start up around 6 a.m. or so; eliminate the need for an alarm clock. Couldn't hurt right?  Unless, of course, it was one of those hauntings that you can't interact with.  Then that room would become the new guest room.

I'll admit, there's a sort of eerie beauty to any graveyard.  That doesn't mean that I want to look out my bedroom window everyday at it, though.  And what happens if there's a zombie apocalypse?  Guess where the zombies are going first. That's right.  The singles complex across the way.  It'd be like the zombies had a Burger King next door. Their way, right away.

A zombie apocalypse is reason number 17 on my list of why everyone should have a double-barreled shot gun in their house.  But that's a whole other blog.