A Random Image

Jett Superior laid this on you on || March 21, 2001 || 10:00 pm

I should stop smoking. I should stop swearing. There are lots of things that I should stop doing within the widdle scope that is my life. They are all the things that I deem fun or relaxing, yet others are horrified and/or offended by them.

Mostly, I should just stop thinking. O—-KAY, that about clears that up.

There are things that I say and do that others find just utterly appalling. The thing is, I am not angling for shock value in or entertainment of other homosapiens; I really think these things and they come spewing forth as my brain maps them out. It’s not as bad now that I’m older–a few years back everything came swooshing down the tube from my cranium straight outta my mouth. Nowadays I still say what I mean and mean what I say, but I have somehow gained the faculties for arranging my thoughts so that my statements at least get a voice, an open shot, before someone stumbles all over them in disbelief.

Case in point: arrangements for my corpse after I, personally, become one with the formless ‘its’ that I believe we become post-mortem.

I approached this subject with my mother quite some time ago, and I still hold that my original plan is quite charming. I hope that each and every person within the readable radius of these words will back me up at the time of my demise. Insist, dear readers, NO, DEMAND that my wishes be carried out. I find them quite funny and sexy. IF YOU ARE EXPRESSING SOME DOUBT AS TO WHAT FOLLOWS, PLEASE KNOW THAT I (little ole me) AM ONE-HUNDRED AND TEN PERCENT SERIOUS, WITH A BULLET.

As I say, I was discussing this with my ma over a cuppa joe one remarkable spring-y afternoon. We occupied the swing in her gazebo at the time, a light breeze stirring stray hairs across our faces, the smell of lilac running everywhere and punctuating the moment. She had chosen to consult me in regards to her arrangements for interrment, so I ran my thoughts on my own personal matters by her.

First, I want to be cremated. She balked at this, having enough Italian and Irish in her veins to view this as some sort of defilement against the Temple Of The Flesh.

“Oh, Elizabeth!” she said in a tone of horror that only the truly Southernest of dialects can convey….

I halted her in mid-sentence, reminding her that she was a registered Democrat and as such was beholden to let me speak my piece. I went on to tell her that I want a great big party thrown, a mishmosh of potluck and wake. A great deal of liquor should be involved along with hearty, artery-clogging eats. People can boo-hoo if they absolutely must, but a five-minute limit should be in effect with regards to such nonsense. Afterwards it should be Happyland Central. I simply want folks to have a good time on me. Recollect if you must, but keep it within the confines of all the stupid shit I did to make you laugh, the times we spent together in smiles. “Oh that Beth….you remember the time that she was trying to help that dumbass inebriated Marine from Minnesota and he pinned her down and tried to molest her and she ended up biting a big hole clean through his leather jacket, leaving teethmarks in his arm for TWO WEEKS??? AHHH-hahaha!” (side note: his response was to look drunkenly down at his arm and say, “Sheesh, you godda good orthodontist…lookit how straight!”)

Post-party I would like for someone to lovingly sweep my ashes together and commence separating them into 5 equal piles. One pile should be thrown from a mountaintop, one into an ocean (any old ocean will do), one to the beach and one into the most dense forest available. It would be great if this could be done to the four compass directions (North, South, East and West, for those of you that missed that particular Boy Scout meeting), but I am not overly picky. It would just be nice, is all.

That leaves the fifth and final pile. Those remaining ashes should be neatly scooped into a little vial and driven around the nearest available major metropolitan area until a certain person is found.

A special person. One who would understand.

One who would do just about anything for happiness’ sake.

A junkie.

I want that junkie to sniff me, just snort me right the fuck up.

That’s really what I want, no lie. No exaggerations. Some part of me finds that novel, if not cool. But cool doesn’t really win out in this situation. Novel DOES.

And that’s the way I want it. And my ma just didn’t get it.

But she’s not brought up the subject of her plans again, either.

Nobody worked it out »

Don´t be shy. Lay it on me.

RSS feed for comments on this post.

(you know you want to)