When I Die

24 Mar

For God’s sake, don’t mourn.

Use my death to get laid. Go to a party, talk to a girl, kind of be brooding a little bit, and when she asks you what’s wrong, say “my friend died today.”  Open up to her about your feelings; tell a couple anecdotes about how close we were, things you will remember about me that will change the way you live the rest of your life.  Like I tell women that I wear mismatching socks because my friend who died always wore mismatching socks and my group of boarding school friends all decided upon his death we would never wear matching socks for the rest of our lives.  Girls love this. In reality, my friend who wore mismatching socks is still alive and I just stole his idea, but still.  If I die, you have this for real.  Start never wearing matching socks. Chicks eat this shit up.

Use my death to get out of work.  As long as possible.  The second you hear about my death, walk out of the office crying and when they call you two days later to see where you are say “my BEST FRIEND fucking DIED, OK?”  I don’t care if you are actually my best friend or not.  Even my most tenuous acquaintance, I demand that you do this.  If you fail to use my death to get out of as much work as possible I will fucking haunt you from beyond the grave.

I don’t care what you do with my corpse.  Or rather, if I could, I would throw it to the coyotes in Elysian park, but there are health regulations.  If you can, use my corpse for pranks.  One of you mechanical types, strap it to a dolly and hook it up to something that makes the arms move and roll it up to the house of my worst enemy and make it wave and say “youuu killllled meeee.”  Tape a bag of ketchup to it and throw it off an overpass onto a schoool bus. Something like that.

But better still, give it the Osama burial in international waters, and then, once I’m overboard, there you are in international waters and you’ve already paid for a full day of the boat.  Do a bunch of coke and fuck a bunch of underage girls.  As the reef shrimp come for my succulent eyes I will be giving you the thumbs up.

Just– just don’t fucking mourn.  I am dead.  Maybe I’m in heaven, maybe I’m in hell, maybe I’m nothing at all, but don’t waste a second of fucking time mourning.  Go outside and look at a hummingbird drinking from a flower and know that I saw this too, and it gave me solace in life.  And I also saw this hummingbird fucking in midair and beating the shit out of other hummingbirds and I laughed my ass off.  Fucking hummingbirds, man.

Think of me when you see the hummingbirds.  Or rather, don’t, because when you think about dead people it gets all fucking creepy and you should not sully these moments of appreciating beauty with thoughts of the supernatural, like: “I am seeing nature and am in awe and Delicious Tacos is with me.” Because then you start thinking “what if he’s with me when I jerk off?” “What if he’s in the toilet?”  Just enjoy the god damn hummingbird without bringing me into it.  Trust me, I had plenty of time with the hummingbirds.

Also, if it looks like I’m going to be retarded, pull the plug.  Somebody take care of my cat.

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