(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.
- (Organ donor, duh).
- I haven’t made my bed yet.