(I don’t mean that I think it’ll be a 14 hour long death, I mean that I’m boarding a flight in 14 hours and I’m scared as fook b/c flying is more unnatural than spray tans, e-mail, and walking on the moon all put together)
It’s kind of a posh way to go.
I won’t have to handle the spider situation that’s taking over my box of journals
Like, isn’t the world going up in flames anyway? Climate change, Trump, the most recent season of the Kardashians…
If hell is real, I will run into the arms of my one eyed pug and learn how to bite like I mean it
More people will probably read and/or like my book because if I am dead they will feel sorry for me. Thank you, pity, for escalating my posthumous career!
Losing eight pounds likely won’t be so important anymore, but if they cremate me, I’ll def weigh less than I do now (score)
My biggest fear in life is my mom dying (which I only realized when I typed this). I won’t need to fret about her funeral ’cause it’ll be my funeral, unless she kills herself at my funeral, but she wouldn’t steal my thunder like that
Which reminds me, at my funeral: there will be flourless chocolate cake from Market Table, DMX playing Party Up In Here, and all guests will receive a party favor, which will be one of three of my favorite books: Crush by Richard Siken, Commonwealth by Ann Patchett, and um, um, Bird by Bird by Anne Lamott
Will someone be in charge of telling each of my exboyfriends I love them?
I’ve never been a procrastinator, and since we’re all gonna bite it eventually, it’d suit my Type A personality to just do it now
I have yet to take a nudie
i.e., there’s no real dirt on me, so I can’t die a second death of embarrassment if ppl. go through my stuff
(if you read my journals, my ghost will fuck you up)
I’ll never eat those amazing croissants from Hungarian Pastry
Or see my mom’s dog pick up a scent
Or wade into the ocean by my parents’ house after a long run with my best friend
And how will I poop my metaphorical pants when I encounter a line of sheer poetic genius?
Like Yeats’ (and I’m paraphrasing): we are a soul fastened to a dying animal
I would like to go to grad school
And have a tiny bit more sex
And maybe get my nipple pierced (the right one, which is slightly misshapen)
This is embarrassing and entitled, but if I’m dead you should know, I always wanted to write an advice column and since I don’t see pulling that off in the next fourteen hours, good bye to that
I’m not done farting in movie theaters or leaving wet clothes in the sink. I have more eggs to scramble, 2-8 other books to write, and that doesn’t even include poetry
I want to take my clothes off in a waterfall and see at least ten thousand more sunrises.
I’m a greedy fuck. I need my kidneys and my heart.
decide your ex boyfriend is dead b/c his phone is off which you know b/c you’ve been texting him all day (not delivered) and calling him all night (straight to voicemail) and he hasn’t answered your facebook message or your email or been active on gchat since….yesterday?……FUUUUUUUUUCK CALLING 9-1…
but wait! what about skype?!
so you try to login to skype but you can’t remember your info cause you haven’t skyped since the days of oovo, so you create a brand spanking new skype to finally track that little weasel down only to find out
he is not dead. he called you by mistake 22 hours ago and he’s deliberately not reachable b/c
HE IS MAD AT YOU. THIS IS WHAT SPACE LOOKS LIKE
well shit, I should buy a telescope
no, telescopes are for viewing space, not surviving space
question mark, question mark
that’d be a funny pun if only his name was mark.
actually none of this is funny.
you know how to survive a break up? with a martini and a sundae.
armpit odor is not a science. you forgo deodorant, you sweat, you smell.
there are lots of things to be afraid of. expired milk is one of them.
it is not very expensive to fly from boston to atlanta. you should do more things with the people you love.
sephora is the perfect place to leave a clown and procure an eye infection.
how sad are you? not in words, in numbers.
coffee is a stimulant. that last one was not a fact but I dare you to disprove sadness.
cows that are fed grass cost more than cows that are not fed grass.
it is physically impossible to run and cry at the same time. both demand too much of your body and lungs are more needy than heart…than tear ducts? can I get a fact check on where tears come from? in the meantime, dear, your sneakers.
$34.50 is a lot of money to spend on leggings, but only $4.50 more than your counselor’s copay. there is therapy and then there is retail therapy.
a writer whose name I can’t remember called cicadas the guns of august. imagine living underground for thirteen years to starve your predators.