"You know, she used to call me tactless."
"We’re at a fucking funeral, Jimmy."
"A fucking funeral? Interesting choice of words, considering your relationship with this woman.”
"I slept with her once. It was hardly a relationship."
"Well, regardless, it is the funeral of your having fucked her."
"Jesus, Jimmy, she was right about you!"
"Maybe. But we were friends, so I think it’s ok for me to do this."
"Talk so frankly at her funeral."
"I don’t know if she’d agree."
"You only slept with her once. I’d hardly say you’re qualified to speak on the subject."
"True. But there is such a thing as etiquette."
"Fuck that. Why should be be so respectful to her in death when our entire relationship in life was more like this? Why should we act as if her body in that casket is somehow a shift in how I treat her? I should hope that people who treated me like shit in my life don’t come and act respectful at my funeral. Damn it, that’s not what we’re here for. I mean, really. Death is such a stupid thing to get all worked up over. She’s gone, so what? Life goes on and it doesn’t change my perception of her. She’s always going to be the same girl that I have etched in memory, regardless of her physical state in the world."
"Jimmy, don’t cry. Come on."
"Shut up. I don’t even know what’s happening right now."
"You’re mourning, for God’s sake. Try to keep your voice down next time you say ‘fuck,’ ok?"