It sounds like the start of a bad joke, or the beginning of a bad novel—one you know, you just know, is not going to end well.
My boyfriend lives in a Jewish cemetery.
It's a sentence I particularly enjoy inserting into casual conversation. For example:
"What are you doing this weekend, Dawn?"
"Oh, I'm gonna go see the boyfriend this weekend."
"Oh. Where is he?"
"He lives in Evansville in a Jewish cemetery."
"Oh, that's ... wait. What? He ... wait. WHAT?"
"He lives ... ?"
The face of whomever I’m talking to takes on a more concerned look, one that questions my sanity. "Is he ... is he ... dead?"
"Is he homeless?"
"Well, he's bearded and has smoked found cigarettes before. And he's gone through dumpsters and recovered furniture. Tough call."
" ... He lives in a Jewish cemetery."
"Positive. Especially since Google Maps' latest map has photographic evidence of my car being there."
The other individual raises an eyebrow. I smirk. Because, yes, Ty lives in a Jewish cemetery.
I first blogged about Rose Hill Cemetery nearly two years ago, after I visited for the first time. The house is actually located within the grounds of the cemetery, and the whole set-up is kind of cozy … as far as Jewish cemeteries go, that is. Real estate agents are always trying to sell large windows and beautiful views, and—if you particularly enjoy gazing at headstones while doing dishes at the kitchen sink—look no further, my friend. It’s prime real estate if you want to be “in the know” when it comes to zombie apocalypses.