Death in Russia, Part Deux

Hi there.
I'm back in America now, so my life in Frozen hell is over. I'm now on a whole new/old level of the inferno, filled with superfun stuff like unemployment, broke-as-a-joke-ness and generally ignoring and being ignored by my dearest and closest. But that's how this level of hell works. It ain't frozen, but it sure as fuck is humid and isolated. I swear it's like living on an uninhabited island, with the difference being that some asshole's car alarm goes off every ten minutes and you have to pay really high rent. Is it really worth it? Really?

Anyway, here's the second and brief installment of what happened after the third day of death in Russia.

THE FUNERAL
Now, for those of you not in the know, the deceased gentleman was quite popular and worked at the theater and was generally beloved by all. So picture this if you will. Over 100 people show up to say goodbye to him at the morgue. Yeah, because again, no funeral home, so it's all done at the morgue in Russia. Well, I mean, they do give you that large hall for it. And here comes the tackiness. So there's this lady that sorts out the last minute details with you. One of which is that she is going to put on some mournful music because "trust me, without it, it'll be worse." Really? You don't think that Mozart's requiem blasted at full volume is a bit much? Seriously? Not for Rrrrrrussians it aint.
So then we get all these people, theatrical people mind you, from the theater, who get up to say a few words. I've never seen so many adults cry that much or beat their chests with such vigor. It was like the spirit of fucking Tarzan had entered the place.
At this point, shit hits fan because there are two nine-year-old childrens who are in attendance. Now, one of them is genuinely distraught over the whole daddy's dead thing and is crying her balls off. And the other one, the one that decided to cry on my lap, is faking it. I've never seen anyone fake cry at a funeral before, but apparently his grandfather told him that that's what we do at funerals and so he felt obligated. It was sick. I swear to god. He had his head buried practically in my crotch for the entire thing, and made crying noises, but would periodically look up at me to see if I was still crying and he had to keep going or could finally stop faking. And I had to see that he was faking every time he did that because his eyes were completely dry and he had this sly look in his eye. Fucking nine-year-olds!

And then came the reception, sponsored by the theater. It was very lovely and tasteful, right up until some alcholic cunt showed up, sat right next to the widow, and began yelling "He was my all, he was my everything, he was my life!!!!" I tried to get her to leave, and when she refused, I told the widow's brother to get her the hell out of there lest I punch her in the face. I mean who does that? He was your all? Really drunken idiot? How about he was the widow's all? How about he was his two children's all? God, only in Russia. No motherfucking decorum.

However, decorum or not, it all seemed honest injun and true. I mean, these people felt shit and expressed it. Also, there was lots and lots of vodka. And food. And crying. I can't over exaggerate the crying. Because that's how we roll in Russia.

All in all, after officially declining my inheritance, so that his two young children can have it all, because I don't want it and it's the right thing to do, this particular death, for some as yet unknown reason, haunts me. I can't seem to get over it. Even though this death, was not nearly as important as the one that came before.

I'm glad to have left Russia because I've had enough of Kafka, but I'm not glad to be here, because here is destructive for me. And I guess this is me signing off. I might post an old entry that I wrote but never posted, but this is the last update update.

Good night and god speed.