Albert walks into a bar on a quiet Thursday night and spots his old buddy Norman sitting alone at a table, hunched over a glass of something strong and brooding like a thundercloud in a necktie. His face was long, his shoulders drooped, and his drink looked like it was trying to crawl away from the sheer weight of his mood.
Albert strolls over and sits down. “Norman, you look terrible. What’s the problem?”
Norman sighs like a man who just found out his lottery ticket matched yesterday’s numbers. “My mother died in August,” he says, voice heavy.
Albert puts a comforting hand on his shoulder. “I’m so sorry to hear that.”
Norman continues, “Then in September, my uncle passed away.”
Albert frowns. “Man, that’s awful. Two loved ones gone so close together.”
Norman nods. “It gets worse. In October, my grandfather died.”
Albert gasps. “That’s terrible, Norman! How are you even holding it together?”
Norman gulps his drink and mutters, “Every month—like clockwork—someone sends me money. First it was $5,000. Then $10,000. Then $15,000.”
Albert blinks. “Wait… what? That’s not bad news at all! Why are you so depressed?”
Norman slams his glass on the table. “Because it’s November, Albert. And so far—nothing! Not a dime! I’m cursed!”
Albert stares, speechless, then bursts out laughing. “You’re not cursed, you’re just dangerously optimistic!”
Norman shakes his head. “I just don’t know how to budget grief properly anymore.”
Moral of the story: Some people mourn the loss of money more than the people who gave it.
