(After fetching Gramma's mail): Me: You got another funeral home ad. Gramma: Again? I got 3 yesterday! Soon they'll be sending a loaded rifle and asking me to f***ing shoot myself!
(We were listening to the radio on the way to school, and a report came on saying how some old people ate brownies with pot.) Me (referring to that 70's show): Haha magic brownies... Mom: We could use those to send grandma to the other side...
Me: I don't want to become an astronaut, because if something goes wrong, I'll be stuck in the middle of nowhere with no help. Mom: Don't worry about that! If you get hurt in space, you'll just die!
(Recently after my grandfather's funeral.) Family friend: I heard you buried your father. Dad: Had to. Dead, you know?
Stepdad: When I die, have me cremated. Then, put my ashes in the compost. Me: Why would we put you in the compost? Stepdad: So you can put it on the vegetables and eat me! Mom: No! I'm not eating you! Not when you're dead anyway. Me: o.o
Kids suffer from Seasonal Affective Disorder too, right?
