I still remember the astonishingly dumb joke that pushed me over the edge into hysterical laughter at one of my first slumber parties. I wasn’t the only one, and for my mother 2AM was apparently the worst time for pandemonium. She threatened our lives and returned to bed, leaving us shaking with what I would later come to refer to as ‘church giggles’.
When I die, rent a dancehall or a bar, or hire out 610 Magnolia or Hometown Pizza for the memorial, and make my urn the table’s centerpiece. Tell stories of my absurd notions, my failures, my grand missteps and impossible triumphs, of my loves and my road trips, of my time spent at amusement parks and beaches, of my insecurities and my conceits. Laugh, eat, and create new stories and memories. Drink, smoke, try things you’ve never tried before, be bad, and remember everything ungilded.
And as much as I love Pachelbel’s Canon in D, and other assorted classical music, the songs you play had better be loud.
And know now, when I’m still around to say it (and intend to be for a long time), that I love you. I don’t say it often enough to the lot of you, but I do. You’re the best things I’ve known, and I thank you for being a part of my life.
Cleaning out the vomitorium after the monthly culinary orgy.