Lemondrop

So, it's safe to say I really need to finish up my gig as an obits editor sooner rather than later. I am able to recognize people on the street based on whose grandmothers have just kicked it.

A shiny new copy of "Death Becomes Her" was one of my Christmas presents, and friends of mine have set Black Sabbath's "When Death Calls" as their ring tone for me. Argh!

Obituary writers are people too. We have hopes and dreams and toasters and orphaned socks in the laundry room like everyone else. Most of us are capable of talking about more than just our jobs (despite the fact that this little blog might prove as evidence to the contrary). And most of us hate Black Sabbath.

Come this April, I will have handled daily deaths for three years. Which is not exactly a long time. But it's enough.

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About a month ago, I asked an older colleague who spent years handling obituary submissions when it was that they knew they had to get out. They told me it was when someone close to them died. After that, they couldn't distance themselves from their job like before.

And here I was thinking that I would eventually have to get out of this line of work because I'd get too desensitized. Apparently, I should only be so lucky.

Having said that, I can't exactly sit around and wait for someone to die to give me the motivation to get out. That's -- well, it's wrong on so many levels. And I'm impatient, anyway.

So it looks like I'll have to figure out what to do with myself in the near future. Or maybe someone will decide to shower me with money, and I won't have to do anything with myself.

Anyway, um, here's to life after death.

Cheers for reading.