Tuesday, February 22, 2005

Every Inch of Me Will Resist You!

I have a lot of work to do, so naturally I'm thinking about suicide again. I'm not depressed or bipolar or anything, you should know. I'm just lazy. To me, for just a fleeting moment, suicide seems like a way to weasel out of work. Of course, I always realize that the implications of killing myself would a bigger pain in the long run and I decide to just do my work. Or watch TV. You know, whatever. For the record, I also often consider chopping off my hands. Everyone would feel totally bad for me if I did — at least until they found out I did it myself. But still, no one could realistically expect me to get much of anything done if I was handless. Except watch TV. Win-win, really.

Anyway, all the suicide thought — however fleeting, of course — got me thinking about my funeral. I've always said that I wanted a cheap funeral. Why throw a big party for me when I'm not around to appreciate it? I understand that grieving drags on and funerals do something to help my loved ones to get through that dark period, so I figured I'd compromise and ask for the cheapest possible funeral that will still give the survivors the closure they need. As long as they play the Simple Minds' "Don't Forget About Me," I'd be happy and whatever money they don't spend on the funeral, they can buy a nice TV set. And they can think of me whenever they watch it.

Today, I took this a step further.

Even if I died today, I would still leave behind a lot of stuff — some of it nice, some of it not worthless. Things like my car and the money in my bank accounts would naturally go to my family, but I feel like my mom and dad and brother wouldn't really want stuff like my CDs, my video games, the DVD collection, the posters, my paintings, my cool clothes. And I'd hate to think of all my rad stuff just sitting in the attic in Hollister. So I propose one of the following options for divvying up my stuff:
Immediately following my funeral, anybody who wants any of my stuff will be handed a map and then must follow the most mind-bending treasure hunt ever. Like wicked hard. Whoever wins gets everything. Ideally, I'd design the hunt myself in my final days. However, I may not know when my number is up and death may strike like a swift, steely-clawed eagle from hell. (Those who know me well must guess that this is more likely the case.) Fortunately, I have...
Immediately following my funeral, the chairs or pews or whatever are cleared out for a dance floor. Anyone interested in any of my stuff — while still wearing my funeral clothes — must participate in a dance-a-thon. Whoever lasts the longest wins everything. The music will consist of the following 80s dance hits:
  1. Oingo Boingo - "Dead Man's Party"
  2. Erasure - "Stop!"
  3. Rick James - "Superfreak"
  4. B-52s - "Monster (in My Pants)"
  5. Billy Idol - "Dancin' With Myself"
  6. Dramarama - "Anything, Anything"
  7. E.G. Daily - "Mind Over Matter"
  8. Dead or Alive - "You Spin Me Round (Like a Record Player)"
  9. Falco - "Der Kommisar"
  10. Olivia Newton John - "Let's Get Physical"
  11. Real Life - "Send Me an Angel"
  12. David Bowie - "Let's Dance"
  13. Human League - "Obsession"
  14. New Order - "Blue Monday"
  15. Aneka - "Japanese Boy"
  16. Yaz - "Situation"
  17. Electric Light Orchestra - "Don't Bring Me Down"
I'm not sure if the last song actually came out in the 80s or not, but come on — it's my fucking funeral, picky. Also, I haven't checked if this mix comes in under eighty minutes. It very well might not, in which case I say to please work around this difficult. Again, it's my funeral. And please, no remixes.

So those are the choices. I think I should mention that I'm 100 percent serious about this. I suppose the right thing to do would be to talk to my lawyer and get this all official, but I'm really bad and getting stuff like that done in a timely manner. This is where you come in. If you've read this far, you clearly have some passing interest in me and my life. Thus, if I die without getting this officialized, please present those in charge of my funeral and will with a print-out of this journal entry in hopes that some legal precedent will grant my one last wish.

And now, suicide. No. TV. Definitely TV.

(So maybe Hunter S. Thompson just didn't want to write another book?)

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