So I woke up today, and my twin bed casually turned into a death bed. My stomach feels like I have a baby kicking inside, and it feels like ISIS has set up camp in my head. Not ideal. Despite looking down the barrel of the loaded gun we call death, I’m still sitting here in class, writing blogs like there’s no tomorrow, because there might not be.
I’ve been trying to discover the root of this deathly sickness (upset stomach and minor headache), but I’m stumped. Could it have been the five plain hot dogs I had for dinner last night? I don’t think so. Could it have been the gallons of MD 2020 I drank this weekend? Probably not. Those two cancel each other out. The legs feed the wolves. The end justifies the means.
With that, I don’t think I have a ton of time left. Blogging takes 110% everyday. I’m at 60% today max. That math doesn’t add up. Since my time here is numbered, I think it’s time to get my affairs in order. So here are my wishes for my funeral:
Bury me naked
Send me out the same way I came in. I want an R-rated funeral. Put it all on display. Sex sells. I’ve dedicated my life to this body, so it’s only right everyone gets to see it one last time. Also, don’t be afraid to fluff me up a little bit, if you know what I mean. You’re only as good as the last time everyone saw you naked.
Hire a bouncer to hold a line outside the funeral home
Nightlife 101. Every successful bar owner knows to always hold a line outside the entrance, no matter how full the bar is. It makes the bar look more popular, and gives off an exclusive vibe. That’s what I want for my funeral. I want people hitting up club promoters trying to get on lists to skip the line. I might even have people pay a cover. I’m not ruling out hiring John Taffer to make sure you guys get it right. Also, guys won’t be let in unless they bring 2 girls. The last thing I need is a sausagefest funeral.
No Narcs Allowed
Someone publish my blog drafts
As of right now, I have 79 unpublished blogs. Some I felt were too offensive, some are too stupid, and there are some that no human should have to read. I’d give you my password to sign into the site, but I honestly have no clue what it is. Classic prisoner of war tactic. Can’t confess what you don’t know. John McCain mentality. Don’t ask don’t tell.
The funeral mass service will last no more than 15 minutes
I never understood the Church part of the whole funeral process. By the time the mass starts, I’ve been dead for a while. Decisions at the pearly gates have already been made. One little church service won’t swing any opinions. No one’s been a shitty person their whole life, then got into heaven because of one funeral mass. I either got in or I didn’t. I’m also conscious of people’s busy schedules. Not trying to ruin the weekend.
You ever walk into a wake and the funeral home ends up being an absolute pollen factory? It’s the worst. It’s already allergy season, and I don’t want to make it any worse. It’s also sort of gay to buy a grown man flowers. Not that there’s anything wrong with that. I just don’t want people getting the wrong idea. Then again, it’s fun to keep people guessing.
Someone delete all my text messages/browsing history/Instagram DMs/3am Facetimes
Control the story before it controls you. Just some basic PR stuff. Cover my bases.
No one is allowed to make one of those shitty photo shopped pictures of me in clouds with angel wings
Please don’t make me one of these
I apologize to these dead people. I’m not making fun of you, just all of your friends and family. I hope no one reading this knows these people, I found these pictures on Google Images.
No one is allowed to get a tattoo in memory of me
I don’t care how much you miss me, please don’t get my name or face tattooed on you. You think I grinded for 22 years just have my face posted on your acne covered back? No one has nice enough skin for my name to grace, so don’t even try.
That’s all I can think of so far, there’s probably some things that I missed, but time is a luxury I no longer have. Heroes are remembered, but kids who spend all day writing jokes about Nazis and Four Lokos never die. See you on the other side. Pour one out for me.
Completely unrelated, but I’m writing this in Stats class, and the girl in front of me has spent the entire lecture watching NCIS while tearing through Bumble. Real recognize real. Shooters shoot. Never too early to make weekend plans. Booty calls don’t have time zones.