by Ashley Spurgeon

If my work badge doesn’t unlock the door on the first swipe, I’ve been secretly fired.

A hairball hack from my old cat is really the beginning stages of a death rattle.

Any ache or pain will suddenly escalate, and then become permanent.

If I let someone leave an argument before the problem is resolved, they will suddenly die and I will be stuck with the guilt of a bad parting.

Every elderly person who lives alone is essentially Eleanor Rigby.

That a weird garbage bag on the side of the road contains either the whole body of a child or assorted body parts of an adult.

A phone call from my mother at an usual hour is to announce the death of a close relative.

Any phone call from a close relative is to announce the death of my mother.

That bug floating in my drink? It’s the widow of the bug I probably just drank.

A person in my life knows all about that embarrassing message board I used to frequent and is just waiting to bring it up in front of a large group of people.

I’m so afraid of losing my vision that I will probably lose another sense, just because I wasn’t paying attention.

My descendents will be disappointed that I don’t have a “better” 9/11 story.

I will poop in my pants when I die.

Ashley Spurgeon is a writer living in Nashville, and has a Twitter account that her grandma follows.

Illustration by Ana María Correa.