06 January 2019

Funerals Make Me Feel Stuff

Comment on a shared video of a funeral procession: “Wonder if he knew how much he was loved and valued.”

Of course he didn’t.

None of us ever do.

I know that funerals are not about the dead guy. They’re really about the people left behind. That said, free to ignore everything below; I’ll be dead, so I won’t really care.

I don’t want anyone to stand up at my funeral and lie. Unless they are making up stories about how I died. (See last line.)

I want someone to say, “Yeah, Krissy was pretty much an asshole. But if she loved you, she loved you.”

I want my kids to stand up and say, “As a mother, she was pretty…eh. But she did love the fuck out of us.”

I want Reeves to stand up and say, “Tried to put Krissy in a cab one time, holy fucking spider monkey.”

I want Kensey to tell everyone that I drew a gun on him.

I want Scotty to say, “See, that’s just what she did… went to places trying to get herself killed.”

I want Cyn to tell everyone I took away her catnip and all the paper plates. 

I want people to stand up and tell the most ridiculous, awful, heartfelt stories they can remember about me.

Mostly though, I want people to know and remember that I wasn’t a great person, but I tried to be a better person. And I loved. I loved so incredibly much

*When we lie about how I died, can we somehow work a snowboard, a gerbil, Kensey’s cat, Sally, and rock-climbing into it?

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