Don't talk shit about the dead: especially if you talked shit about them all the time when they were alive. If it sounds hypocritical, you're right! We say nobody's perfect, and yet, every dead person is perfect, if you only go by how they're spoken of.
Now, let me talk some shit about my wife! News flash: she wasn't perfect (bear with me). The good news is that shit-talking is actually not as bad as being dead (seriously, bear with me)!
My wife was fat. She was short-tempered and pessimistic. My wife couldn't empathize well and made me fight to know when something was wrong. She had night terrors and panic attacks. My wife drank too much and procrastinated. She was self-centered and didn't know how to treat herself right. My wife had a horrible childhood and sometimes used certain words incorrectly. She hid important things from me and was depressed. Her fourth toe on both feet were undersized.
Most of these flaws I'm also guilty of: I wear black t-shirts because they help hide my man-boobies. Though I guess you'd call my toes pretty much normal.
I'm a hypocrite about many things, but this is not one of them. I explicitly accepted all her imperfections while she was alive. One thing my wife was not is ignorant. We made peace with our flaws together while she was alive, so I'm not disturbing any rest-in-peace. I loved her lack of perfection. I still do. And I could fill hundreds of blog posts listing ways my wife was perfect -- to me. But who wants to sit through that?
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