So, my dad died Friday. This is not your problem, but I navigate cacti while my mom and I wrap up what was not already arranged, while I enjoy acting like I’m the sort to be able to pay for a $300 hotel.

I have no issue with most cacti. What there is to deduce here is that I’m originally from Arizona, and if you’d like to jump in cholla, you’re welcome to at your peril.

Some may note that was not accidental wording.

See, the thing about cholla is you really don’t want to have gotten that close.

I always hate being back in Arizona to hear banalities about whatever the fuck it is now. Give me the 5Cs or GTFO.

No one is from here. So to attempt to speak as a native is generally useless. I fucking am. Sorry, Wisconsin and Minnesota – you don’t get it.

Yay! More saguaros. Tucson seems to prefer “sahuaro,” as evidenced by street names and more than one school name. I won’t speak to why I was ever here in high school.

I will tell you that the “g” was central to branding.

I guess this is my immediate reaction to being here for my dad dying. It also means the last time I have to come here.

Well, penultimate. I have to fly out here again for the spreading of the ashes, so we’re not quite done yet. Death certificates can apparently be a bitch.

What’s odd is I’m now spending my own money to be here. Mom kept reminding me as I was making decisions that related to my own possessions.

I’m not rich, and it will be a month or so before I can take control of what’s left. But, you know, this is not my current worry.

Meanwhile, I’m in my room at the Westward Look. Don’t assume what I can do thereafter, as I’d never like to be back here. When I fly out, I have zero intention to return.