Thursday, October 21, 2010

And You Thought I was Tough

I'm scared.

I feel better getting that off of my chest. What am I so afraid of? Well, chickens, *obviously*.

Ok seriously.

I'm afraid of wolves. And fog. Carnie folk. And becoming my mother. And failure.

But mostly, I am afraid of being forgotten.

And no, I don't mean being left behind at the grocery store, although that was a legitimate fear once while out shopping with friends and I had to go destroy a toilet (it was day two of a softball tournement, stop judging me) and they all assumed I was with somebody else and they all left the building. Without me. But that's another story for another time.

I don't want you to forget me. You know, when I'm gone. Don't worry, geez, I'm not going anywhere yet, not for a long time. But it does bother me sometimes. Every time I encounter death, which unfortunately in my line of work happens a lot, I am always thrown into a tailspin when I realize that nothing stands still for that.

Life goes on. People are still eating, working, sleeping, *living*. Because they must. Really. I know this. But here's the thing - totally unacceptable. If I die young, I fully expect the universe to at least tilt or something. So the least you people could do is, show some *respect*, damnit.

Like stay in bed. If you are forced to go out, wear black or don't get dressed at all. Don't eat anything you like for at least 24 hours. Especially if it is something *I* like to eat, it is forbidden. So no olives. No feta. No pickled fish. Please *do* take a shower but you better not look happy about it. You can listen to music as long as it is a continuous loop of "Blue Eyes Cryin in the Rain" by Willie Nelson. Don't do things I despise, like shopping(I'm not kidding) or anything to do with Hannah Montana.

You are allowed to cry. Publicly. In fact, inconsolably would be a nice touch. Public displays of devotion are always appreciated. At this point in time, I have no idea what I want to be remembered for, but I will get back to you on that. I still have time to figure it out and become great at something (besides an awesomely fierce Chuck Norris-style zombie slayer). I don't think a national day of mourning (a week would be even better) is too much to ask.

Ok. For reals now. I want the most kick-ass party you've ever had, because that's what I would *really* do. I want everyone to sing karaoke, eat brisket and take turns with the potato gun.

After all, we can't *all* be rockstars, but I damn well expect you to act like one.

P.S. I love you

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