For The Record

It's not so much that I have a fear of dying, it's more that I have a fear of people seeing my dead body. After watching many a crime show, the thought of having a pair of police officers and some chick in a trench coat staring down at my powdery white face, discussing how, according to forensics, the victim was probably stabbed with a corkscrew fifteen times in the elbow before slipping on a banana peel and falling down six flights of stairs, has caused me many sleepless nights. Although if a banana peel turns out to be the cause of my death, I hereby give the entire world permission to stare at my body. As punishment for being an idiot.

That being said, I've thought long and hard about how I can go about keeping anyone from seeing my dead body and I'm currently in development of a product that will, with a series of levers and pulleys, alert my house when my heart stops beating at which time it will burst spontaneously into flames and burn down around me so thoroughly that my body will be unrecognizable in all the rubble and for years people will debate about whether I really died in there or if I'm off hiding out with Tupac and Elvis. By my calculations I should finish the invention by the time I'm 120, which, coincidentally, is the exact age that I want to die.

Given the chance, however slight, that I might not die peacefully in my sleep as an outrageously old lady, I've had to plan for the possibility that someone might see my body and have begun to stress to friends, family, and anyone else who will listen, my desire to have as few people as possible to see my dead body and what to do should they be the person to find me deceased. These conversations are always a bit uncomfortable for the other person, partly, I'm sure, because they always end with me forcing them to vow to respect and carry out my last wishes with a spit handshake, which, as you might know, is as good as a signed contract. That being said, I don't trust nary a one of them and therefore am leaving it to you, Internet, to make sure my dying wishes are followed.

First, if you find my body, I would appreciate it if you bring it directly to the crematory, stick it in the big stove, and turn that thing on full blast. Twice. Make sure every thing's ashes. No need to stop at the morgue, I don't really need an autopsy. No! Not even if I'm the victim of a horrendous crime! I don't CARE if people know how I died, I don't want anyone to see me! This is also the reason why I must stress that under no circumstance do I approve of the use of my body for scientific research, nor will I be able to donate any organs. Sorry little girl in Kansas who would be a perfect match for my heart, you just can't have it, because it would mean that somebody might have to look at me.

Now as far as the ashes go, I don't really give a damn what you do with them, just don't keep them in a vase on top of your mantle please. If you find a little fingertip that you must absolutely store in a locket to remember me by, then fine, but the majority of my body? Please throw it away. I'd prefer if you bury it somewhere or pour it into the ocean or something romantic like that but I'm actually quite okay with you flushing me down the toilet too.

The Funeral: Seriously, don't bother. Just because I'm dead doesn't mean I approve of you wasting my hard earned money on something that won't benefit me anyone. But as I have been told time and time again, "The funeral is not for the dead, Yvonne. It's for the ones who are left behind."

So fine, have your stupid funeral, but if you're going to do it, I have some specific demands. First, before you go blowing up my senior portrait and placing it on an easel in the front of the church, please make sure you photoshop it until I look like this:


Because that's how I'd like people to remember me.


Second, I'm pretty sure I don't have to remind you that under no circumstance is my actual body to be at the funeral. If you even think of setting me up there in some sort of open coffin situation where little girls can come up and touch me and go, "Mommy, she feels rubbery!", understand that I am also in the production stages of a device that will bring me back to life long enough to climb out of that coffin and STRANGLE YOU!!!!!!


Ahem.

Third, we've all heard those people who say they don't want anyone to cry at their funeral. They want people to wear bright colors and sing and rejoice for the passage of blah, blah, blah. . . whatever. If people aren't sad about my death then why the hell are they there? For the free lasagna afterwards? Not only must people be wearing black to attend my funeral, but they are required to be heartbroken. I have already reserved a set of bouncers to guard the front doors and they have strict orders to only allow people in full fledged fits of angst to enter. It's not required that they're actually crying over me to get in, only that they're crying over something.

Fourth, anyone who speaks about me must refer to me, not as Yvonne, but as "Her Highness Fancy Pants, The Most Wonderful One". It's a bit complicated so I encourage people to start practicing now.

Finally, and perhaps most importantly, I would like this song to be played on a loop during the entirety of the ceremony and reception. If you can get R. Kelly to come and perform it live on a loop, even better.