the problem with mortality

some shit luck

The night of the memorial concert starts out solemn and boring. All five choirs sang stripped down versions of basically every song from my Spotify playlist titled "Favorites." The only song they sang that was relatively upbeat was the very last one which was, due to sickeningly poor taste, "Keep Yourself Alive" by Queen. I think they were trying to make some sort of play on words implying that they were keeping my memory alive, but the failed attempt at metaphorical emphasis only succeeded in making the audience uncomfortable, and the students existential. 

After the concert students hung around, taking pictures of and with my choir picture from last year. In which I have a giant zit on my left cheek. They've surrounded it with flowers trying to disguise the zit as a spare petal having fallen off, but in reality everyone can tell. I have acne. Though this isn't a particularly important event from the night of the memorial concert and there were plenty of other things that I should be talking about, it's important that you know the extreme bad luck I'd had even when I was alive. Though it may seem obvious given that I am dead.

Once everyone leaves, I hop into golden boy's car with him and his girlfriend because more bad news: I can't teleport. 

After a long three minutes of listening to "Hotline Bling" through the car's stereo, she finally speaks up. 

"That was rough." She said, putting a hand on his. "Are you okay?" 

He just shook his head. "Can we just not talk, please?"

She looks hurt but she keeps it to herself.

"It's just that you were always kind of a bitch to her, but now you're acting like she was your best friend."

"Well I wasn't about to befriend the girl who wanted to steal my man." She responds.

"I understand that but that doesn't mean you had to go out of your way to be mean to her."

She stays quiet for a long time. The tension in the car builds while "thank u, next" pipes through the speakers.

"Just take me home." She says.

"That is literally what I'm doing right now." He retorts. "Don't be so dramatic."

I snort. She was always the dramatic type. If she could make something about her, she would. But there's no way she would change just because some bitch who loved her boyfriend died.

He drops her off at her house, still angry. He speeds off before I can even slip into the front seat, so I stay in the back. He turns on an angry song I'd never heard before and pounds on the steering wheel.

Then he speeds through a stop sign and collides with the car going left across the intersection.

Damn. Choir kids have had some shit luck lately.