“I didn’t spare it a second thought,” McKay says, fixing a thousand-yard stare at a shelf of pre-loved encyclopedias. “Even lying awake in bed last night, I had no problem forgetting the eyes of that old lady whose face was engraved on the urn. Water off a duck’s back!”
McKay says she was perusing the bowling trophies when her fingers brushed against a canister that literally once held dead body dust. “I was suddenly confronted with the fact that the physical contents of a human being are somehow equivalent in mass to a bag of jube-jubes,” she says. “But I buried the thought right away by frantically purchasing three copies of Spice World on VHS.”
According to McKay, once the spooky pickle jar was out of sight it became easy to wave away her abject horror. “Who knows if it even really was an urn, anyway?” she says, looking haunted. “Those dates printed on it could have just been the coordinates for a geocache!”
Despite never expecting to find a crematory cocktail shaker at her local thrift store, McKay says the experience hasn’t had any lasting psychological impact.
“Am I now spending every waking moment thinking about the future inevitability that my descendants will donate the vessel holding my ashes to a place that hawks second-hand underwear? Of course not!” She then stood in front of an antique mirror, mumbling something to her reflection that sounded like, “fucking pull it together, Trish.”
McKay was later spotted leaving the Value Village checkout in a stupor, urn in hand. “I think I blacked out for a sec. Did I buy this?” she asks, bewildered. “On the bright side, I guess I can cross out ‘Nancy’ and write ‘Doug’ when the time comes.”