The Ugly Volvo (theuglyvolvo) wrote,
The Ugly Volvo
theuglyvolvo

I have a lot of trouble reading at my house because of the noise--if there's water dripping or a dishwasher running or 5 people sitting around, talking about Mormons and growth spurts at the top of their lungs, it's really hard to concentrate. I have recently solved this problem by discovering the most beautiful, peaceful place on earth to read a book. It's set far back from the road so you feel like you're cut off from everything... there are beautiful rolling hills...it's not woodsy, but it has enormous, majestic oak trees...there are huge expanses of open field...

And (to prevent you from feeling isolated) there are hundreds of people just lying around--none of whom are loud or obnoxious or inconsiderate. All of whom will leave you alone while you read your book.
All of whom are dead.
Because it's a cemetery.

I stayed up on the hill, of course, away from the tombstones. Once you start getting close to certain graves it's not so attractive anymore. Some graves are fine, of course, but some of these dead people have really tacky living relatives. The one right near my grandmother's that has ceramic kittens and a yellow smiling sun and purple pinwheels stuck in the ground all around it, for instance; and you can't tell if it's a grave site or a children's television program? And the ones that have more flowers than the Brooklyn Botanical Gardens? If you plant flowers, try to make it look like there's some semblance of order. Some of these graves look like rainbows were up all night vomiting onto them.
And who could forget the grave with the seasonal decorations.

Rotting gourds from halloween? Check.
Small plush turkey from Hallmark store? Check.
Two-foot tall Christmas tree wearing a santa hat, which, when picked up, also revealed eyeballs with lids that open and close and lips that move? Check.
Ounce of good taste?
Ounce of good taste?
Anyone?

But it's quiet there, so no one really bothers you when you're trying to read. The occasional person visits a grave. Waters a plant. So on and so forth.

A equation to remember though, for all of you who are:

A.) Paranoid, and
B.) Can't resist sitting directly under the oak tree because you feel like a drawing out of "A Children's Treasury of Nursery Rhymes,"--a feeling which, for some reason, is really appealing to you.

Oak Tree + Strong breeze = Enormous bodily welts after being violently pelted with acorns.

Just so you have some idea of what's hitting you.
Because I didn't.

"Oh...what a nice gust of wi--ALL RIGHT, ASSHOLE. WHO'S THROWING ROCKS?
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