Interesting fact (because “fun” just doesn’t seem appropriate): I am way more morbid than I appear.

Despite the smile and sunny disposition, I have always had a flair for the macabre.

I’m not sure if it’s because I felt more like Wednesday Addams or because Anna Paquin made it look all too cool to grow up in a funeral home, but, for as long as I can remember, I’ve been obsessed with death.

The hows, the what’s, the why, when, and sometimes, but rarely, the who.

(editor’s note: I wonder if this is why it’s hard for me to move forward…something to work out in therapy)

Not wanting to die myself, of course. Oh no, I’m actually afraid of death. But, if last year’s spider post teaches us anything, it’s that I work through my fears by trying to understand them.

I inspect. Inquire. I was curious.

I’d read Rotten on a daily. Shoutout to my cousin who, because I didn’t ask his permission, will remain anonymous, but he introduced me to the blog. Trust, it’s not for the faint of heart.

You may be wondering why, on Sunday of all days (I can hear my momma know), I’d choose to write about something so dark. Well, the last week, and the last 18 hours especially, has made me confront mortality in a way I haven’t before. In a society where you never know if you’re next, I think it’s best that people have, in writing, my wishes should the unimaginable happen.

I want to be cremated. And I want my services, regardless of how the death comes, to be a celebration. Make sure you charter a bus or call an Uber because I want you to indulge in bottomless mimosas and Bloody Marias (tequila instead of vodka…it’s better, trust me) til you’re silly. I used to want my ashes spread, but I don’t want that anymore. Find some decorative way to use them then put me in a place where I can overhear conversations—I’m nothing if not nosy. And pass me down, generation to generation, whilst telling my story. This is incredibly self-indulgent, I’ll admit, but I think that I’m owed something that I didn’t have in life.

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I’m processing.

Processing what has happened. And it seems nothing is going to be done to fix it. This is my therapy.

Out of respect for the many lives lost in Gilroy, CA; San Jose, TX; and Dayton, OH; I won’t post this to social media.

If you’re in the know, you’ll read it.

I think speakeasies are cool anyway.