Writing my obituary.



Hopefully this obituary is interesting enough you'll read it. And it is, because it's written by a dead man. How many write their own? Not enough, I'll assume. Most are written by mournful loved ones and only have nice things to say. Tepid things, like "She was generous," or "He is survived by three ugly children." You've never read one stating, "He was reclusive loser with enough free time on his hands to write his own obituary," or so you thought! I won't bore you with what I did or felt, what's immediate is how I went about it. I'm dead right now, soaring through the clouds of Heaven, watching angel girls grind the Pearly Gates for their own gratification. I'm up here playing beer pong with God using borrowed tiny halos from aborted babies instead of cups—he's pro-choice, by the way. Down there on the soil, if there's any merit to karma or even the simple laws of physics, you are peeling my remains from mangled crowbars and broken baseball bats. A forensic expert is x-raying my teeth and comparing records. If there were any remains, they're being donated from the dead to the dying. Organ donor, here. I'm so selfless I'll let someone have my decrepit liver instead of letting it rot. It's likely over-sized, so you'll have to squeeze out the high-fructose corn syrup first. If my body is still intact at death, I would like someone to pose my corpse in the "thinking man" position with eyes closed, resembling a deeply contemplative state, then post it as my Facebook avatar with the caption: "Intellectual zombies eat less brrrains than average."

For Christ's sake don't hold a funeral. If you must, dress me up as Clint Eastwood when he wore a poncho—cigar, sombrero and all. Should anyone cry, it is my best friend's duty to console them with, "There there, twat." If that seems harsh, don't be selfish. You're not in the damn casket. This is my special day. Death is a beautiful celebration more honorable than any other event in your life will be. When you're born you're not forming memories—that's your parents' special memory. Other honorable days include birthdays, but those aren't too fancy. People buy you thoughtless gifts like things they want for themselves and you're just an excuse to eat ice cream cake. Death brings about a clean slate. It's where life-sentences come from. Death is the ultimate absolution—that's why no one puts you on a coin or names a street after you until you've passed. Why did people celebrate upon Michael Jackson's demise? It certainly wasn't his "Thriller" album. It was the fact he kept his relative honor before titled with anything worse than "suspected child rapist." Imagine if someone erected a Michael Richards statue in his hometown prior to his Laugh Factory incident—that couldn't have gone over well. Upon death, you're given leeway. You're no longer a threat to your enemies. Grudges parish along with you. People are finally able to put petty grievances aside and embrace the compassionate stance they should've held while you were alive.

We've all got to go some day and I'm prepared. I'm not obsessed with leaving any legacy, or filled with any conceits regarding my seed or last name. A legacy is only worthwhile if you understand the root of that honor is the gratification of knowing you did right by those around you and your planet. It matters not after death. With that said, there are still some demands. Off earth, I want to be regarded with the same consideration. Cremation fits my minimalist ideals. It would also be suiting to carry my ashes in a spare can of Pringles—I lived inside one in life, why not in death? At that point I want to be chucked in a dumpster behind an A. J. Wright store. To fit my personality and my self-worth the chucking act must be nonchalant. Chuck passively, perhaps over your shoulder while whistling. Don't even look to see the can landed inside the garbage crate.

Alternatively, if you're a sentimentalist—the type to believe that love is real, angels exist, or that teddy bear gift isn't a ploy to bed you—you can bury me at sea by a lighthouse, mix me with gun powder for the war on terror, or add me as seasoning and enjoy some kindred spirit with your omelet. Oh, where will I go? Perhaps back to some nothing. Perhaps life is some bittersweet affirmation brought to being by nothing more than beckoning the question of "Why not?"—in strict opposition to the ever-present Christian conviction of "Why?" Perhaps it works as a hangover, there to remind you how pleasant feeling nothing can be. There needn't be a great purpose. My life was just and of worth if only to sit pleased by the sheer joy of contemplating it, the awe inspired by observing its wonders and horrors, and the pursuit of pleasure that felt a victory over its pain—even if neither were of any consequence.

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