“What do we say to the God of death?” “Not today.”

Today, I got mail—tangible mail, not AOL style. In the era of online everything, I love it when the postman taps my box with a sampling of envelopes. Yes, most of it is junk. We’re talking 99.9th percentile; but with junk, comes the cathartic carnage of tearing shit open and shredding them to diamond, crosscut bits. That whir of destruction… it does something for me.

Today, I got mail addressed to me and my imaginary husband (who apparently decided to take my name), soliciting our joint purchase of memorial property. The advert slogan reads: Let’s Face It Now. How about, let’s not! GEE-Zus (yea, I’m calling out the one with the “ca-pi-tal G and the Z-zizzy”)! Firstly, I’m from America! And, a ladysapien at that. My average life expectancy peaks at 81.2 years. U-S-A! U-S-A! Being happa-Jappa, genetics could have me afloat even longer at 87.3 years. Yatta! Sugoi! (Jappa-femmes being second only to the Andorrians by three-tenths of a year. I hope those three-tenths fall in the winter months—fuck winter). I’ve got some decades—plural—in me. I’ve yet to even experience half of my expected life’s potential. So, why does Pinelawn Memorial Park and Garden Mausoleums (the Largest in the East) want to have this necro-jizz fiesta over my “peace of mind?” They’re assholes, that’s why. Assholes that prey on the fears of individuals in their prime, one Pinelawn booklet at a time.

Below, is a list of my specific hang-ups with PMPGM (the L in the E):

  • The salutation “Dear Friend:” Don’t call me friend. We’re not friends, friendo. Nor are we going to be friends en la futura. I want to be burned. And then scattered. Let me burn. Let me scatter.
  • The collage of couples staring at the inanimate—walls, plaques, fountains, statues, gazebos, Grecian pillars, oh and all those headstones—giving us a pensive, yet serene three-quarter profile. It’s depression in soft-focused technicolor.
  • The limited-time, complimentary offer of “Our Family Registry,” which appears to be the fifty-seven page, Martha Stewart scrapbook equivalent to organizing all the death shit you care to muster while you’re doing your life shit. Yea, I’m envisioning a monochromatic theme for the will page with perhaps mulberry paper and other mixed media. Though, I’m worried about the acidic migration…

I, like the many of us still breathing, am afraid of death, or dying, or both—probably both. So I, like the many us, do not like to think about it, or get junk mail cautioning me that I, like all the processed muck* in my fridge, have an expiration date (*Note to self: Bullet) Eat less processed muck; Addendum) Learn to cook, therefore becoming less reliant on said processed muck.). Does my carton of Stonyfield, smooth and creamy, low-fat, USDA organic, French vanilla yogurt know that it expired two days ago? No. It’s just sourly fading out from this world. He was a great source of protein and oddly pesticide-free. Unlike organic dairy products, I can’t fade out in that bliss of sour ignorance in the Kingdom of Frigidaire. I have to be reminded, prodded and hustled even–it’s time to decide your last plot point and fill in the remaining bits of storyline accordingly.

Summation: I’m afraid of dying. And black holes, and roller coasters, and eyeballs, and MRSA, and the Hadron Collider (because of its potential to create black holes), and space (too much of it, or too little), and orphaned mattresses left on the sidewalks of NYC and the life aquatic, swimming beneath me in the ocean. And, most of these fears orbit around the phobia core of–death. En fin de la fin. (The outlier fears orbit circa neurosis on overdrive.)

I’m officially three weeks behind in Game of Thrones.

Goodnight, new moon.


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