Of the many important things that the hubs and I discuss, death is not one of them. I once tried to mention that I wanted to be cremated and he did the adult equivalent of stick his fingers in his ears, shake his head violently, and go nahnahnahnahnahaaanahhhanahh.

Meanwhile, I’m just trying to explain to him that I don’t want to talk about my death, I just need him to know that if it happens, don’t put me in the ground. (Unless it’s in a wicker casket. I have this weird thing about getting hot or claustrophobic in my casket. Intellectually I understand THAT I WILL BE DEAD, but it’s too much for my pea brain to think through without falling into that black hole that forces me to hold a mirror under the hub’s nose until I “accidentally” wake him up so we can chit chat til I feel better and he is too awake to fall back asleep.)

So, anyway, if I get hit by a bus and the hubs is too grief stricken to think straight, let it be known that I do not want to be put in the ground.

Unlike other, more zen people I know. I am not okay with dying. Not even a little bit. You always hear these stories about people who look upon the weeping faces of their friends and family and let them know that it’s okay. They are ready to go. They’ve lived a good life, or been blessed, or come to terms with their cancer– whatever. It’s their time. That will not be me. I will be slumped over in a puddle of self pity, begging doctors and nurses to help me, while being very clear with everyone present that I think the whole thing is fucked up and unfair. It will take thousands of hours of therapy for everyone to get over how disturbing the whole thing was to witness. When people speak of me in hushed tones there will be no “she was ready to move on” only pursed lips, head nodding, and darting eyes.

That being said, about twenty minutes ago I realized that certain things in life can make death a little easier to swallow. Like finding a blog plug titled “the blog that inspired me to blog” that links to my blog. That’s right, friends, I have officially become an inspiration to writers around the globe. While this may not make me less despondent and inconsolable on my deathbed, as least I’ll die knowing a legion of adoring fans will hold a candle light vigil with posters and printed pages. The headline of the Globe will read “The Half Truth of a Whole Life Cut Short.”

I think maybe I’ll begin thinking of other things that will make death seem less terrifying. Like dying of eating too many eggplant sandwiches. Or finally having a washer and dryer in my apartment.