I’m glad your grandmother is dead – you should be too. She was a hundred and three goddamn years old for Christ’s sake. Think about how much of your own body has deteriorated in just the last 10 years. Now multiply that by ten. Seriously, she’s probably been in near-constant, excruciating pain for the last quarter century, hanging on in vain just to see you get married and pop out some kids of your own. Maybe that’s why she was such a bitch when you told her your were gay. Honestly, this is no tragedy. Going off to war and dying at 23, that’s a tragedy. Getting your eight year old penis ripped off by the central vacuum in your house and bleeding out because your cousin bet you five bucks you wouldn’t do it (RIP, Cousin Jeremy), now that’s a tragedy! Peacefully drifting off to sleep one night surrounded by your loved ones, that’s called the answer to your fucking prayers! “But I miss her!” I know you’re all broken up about it, I could tell because you had to interrupt the steady stream of cat pictures on my Facebook page with your “heartfelt memorial.” Because nothing says that you’re deep in mourning like a grainy picture you just scanned ten minutes ago and a tearful twenty word reminiscence that you share with 1000 strangers you added as “friends” in some sort of misguided popularity contest. And I’m giving this bitch the benefit of the doubt that she was even a decent person. She probably wasn’t. She’s clearly a homophobe, judging from the way she reacted when you told her you were gay- and she’s probably a racist. They all were back then. So consider the world a better place without your grandmother and her hate crimes. I’m sure Hitler’s grandchildren were sad when Der Grandfather kicked it too, but I’m not gonna sit here and mourn that piece of shit. You can, if you like. You’re probably a big fan, just like your racist grandmother.