"BAW HAW HAW" bellowed Uncle Morgan, "Creg my son, you are taking the piss." He guffawed again and slapped Creg on the back. "When you said you had something you wanted to talk about, I thought it was going to be ladies. I thought you were going to ask me..." he trailed off still smirking and wiped a tear from his eye. Uncle Morgan wandered back to rejoin the rest of the crowd and left Creg to sit by himself. It was his grandmother's funeral. Despite her claiming to know every this person and that, the overall turnout had been underwhelming. Creg wasn't sure who half the people here were, and he was fairly sure his grandmother wouldn't have known them either. He had just finished asking Uncle Morgan what it all meant - 87 years, and this is it? Morgan had laughed, pondered the question a moment, and the entirety of his own 50 or so years of wisdom had come out with: "well, you know Creg, arseholes don't get to have orgasms."
Creg sat a while wondering if his grandmother had ever truly had fun in her entire life. Whether she'd ever once let go of all her crotchety correctitude and had a single genuine laugh. Not that it mattered now of course, now nothing mattered. The whole situation had numbed him, the number of emotions that were trying to fit through the door of his tiny heart had jammed it up. He wasn't sure if he should be sorry for his grandmother for dying, or angry at her for leaving him; sorry for himself for losing her, or angry at himself for his role in seeing her off; or whether he should be sorry or angry at the futility and finitude of mortality general.
Everyone else appeared to be dealing with it by laughing, sharing jokes and stories, drinking beer and reminiscing. Creg was sitting solitary, absentmindedly pulling at the doyley-like hemming of the tablecloth. His phone tinkled. An SMS. It was his girlfriend Cindy. She was cancelling tomorrow's date. And cancelling the part of her life which had Creg in it.
Everything comes to an end, Creg. Arseholes don't get to have orgasms.