An open letter.

An open letter to everyone I know, in the event that they die before I do:

Hey, there,
First – are you serious? You don’t want me to cry? You know I’m going to fucking cry. No – scratch that: I’m going to  bawl my fucking eyes out. Wait – what did you just say? No shit. Now? Right now? Now is the time that you finally decide that dangling participles are unacceptable and you are picking right fucking now to call me out on my shit? You are not funny. I hate you.

Oh, man. I really do hate you. For dying, I mean. What the hell, man? This is not cool. I don’t even – I don’t know – I don’t even know what to fucking say. Just let me cry. For a little bit. You know how I get. Such a cliche, is what you’re thinking. She cries for, like, fifteen minutes and then she becomes hyper-aware that she is crying and then starts thinking of that Dane Cook bit about crying and looking in the mirror while you’re crying and oh my god she just went to look at herself in the mirror. I’m dead, jackass. Quit looking at yourself in the mirror.

Oh, screw you. You’re dead. I can look at myself in the mirror whenever I want.

Wait, you can see that?


Oh, Jesus. Please, please, please promise me that you won’t, like, “just check in” on me from wherever the hell you are. Looking up, down, under – whatever. If I can never again enjoy a private moment with a special friend I will be piiiiiissed. And if you weren’t already dead, I would kill you. Yeah, yeah, I know that doesn’t make sense. I’m delirious with grief, dickwad. Cut me some slack.

I mean, for the record, I really do like the idea of folks I love “checking in” on me. And hey – if you got any say in sending some good luck my way, I’m most appreciative. But there’s a limit, is what I’m saying. I mean, had I been hit by a bus first there’s no way in hay-ell I’d be peeping on you while you’re making twosies in a truck stop bathroom.

And least that’s all you’re doing in that bathroom.

Okay, okay: enough’s enough. Don’t begin an essay with “first” if you don’t intend to use “second” or “third.” Are you for real? Like, when you died did you somehow jump into the body of my Intro to Journalism professor? Because I know for a fact that when we spoke, proper English was rarely used.

Oh while I’m thinking about it, have you met anyone cool? Like Hendrix? Oh my god if you’re best friends with Jimi Hendrix right now I will be uuuuupset. I mean, even more so if you were to watch me while I watch the Ryan Phillippe scenes in Cruel Intentions in a dark room by myself. Uh. Anyway.

Fine, fine. I guess I’m not actually mad at you. I’m just disappointed. Here I thought we had at least five to fifty more good years left together. I sort of thought there’d always be a tomorrow, you know? I guess I – I just – I don’t know. I miss you.

What the fuck? Are you seriously laughing? Here she goes with the cliches again! Someone’s been watching too many Nicholas Sparks movies! Oh, step off, jerkface. You know what? I hope Jimi Hendrix doesn’t even want to have anything to do with you. Your karaoke “All Along the Watchtower” sucked, anyway.

But I’d give anything to hear it again.

Yours truly,

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