sometimes (all the time) i think about what will happen when i die. i don’t mean in the skinny-tie ennui hipster sense, like is-there-an-
afterlife-and-will-nick-drake-be-there, but more like, “will the person who performs my autopsy notice the stain on the crotch of my pants?”
will they judge me based on my scabs? the eybrows i was planning on plucking when i got home, but never got to because of that whole untimely death thing? should i write a little note, and laminate it, and keep it in my purse?? because i won’t be able to explain myself, and i don’t want them sizing me up based on the weird singular hair on my arm that grows to be like five inches long in one day. i am not the red lines across my stomach from these jeans*, or the oddly shaped pattern of stubble in my nether regions.
*they fit really well standing up. i can stand all day.
will my chipped pedicure factor in? the uneven dye job? the incomplete tattoo on my side?
i have also heard that people poop when they die. this clearly will not be the case with me, as i never poop. of course by never i mean only when extremely upset, and being dead, i’m pretty sure my mood will be stable. unless in the act of dying i get all angry like, “what the fuck? i’m not ready to die! i was going to have fruitti di mare for lunch.” and then i poop because i’m sad for all the shellfish i’ll be missing. also foccacia bread. mmmmm.
what will they think of the things i keep? my movie collection? the books i read- and the passages i underlined? the naked pictures on my computer? the five deodorants in my drawer, the 35 eyeshadows, mostly green?
will they read my blog?
people probably think about this stuff more these days what with all the csi floating around out there, but i can’t remember not thinking about it. when i go places, i touch things because i want to make sure they know i was there. or i don’t, for the opposite reason (those suspicious fires were so not me.)
i am relieved to know that my being is my protection. you can’t mess with science. but i am hurt that it will eventually betray me, and all the stuff that is really me, the parts that loved demolition man (you know you did too) and spicy chicken and eating mashed potatoes with my fingers and animal crackers dipped in diet coke (shut up) (that was mostly food. this might be a problem)– all those things will be gone, and i will be just a body to people who don’t really care.
my clothes will be fibers and not style.
my skin will be a map of prior injury, and not a pretty face.
my brain will be nothing. empty. gone.
i don’t go a day without thinking pretty much this whole thing.
no wonder i’m crazy.