When I die I don’t want a monument with my face on it. I don’t want a party, with all of my friends mourning/ celebrating my death and all the lousy things they remember about me. I want silence.

I want the world to spin faster, and I want people to be too preoccupied with their lives to remember I’m gone.

Okay, I’m lying.

But still, sometimes I feel that way.

When I die I really want to be there to watch them bury my body. I want to make sure their doing it right, that I’m wearing my favorite jeans and that t-shirt my little sister Kalie made in art class. The one with the uneven pink stripes. I don’t even like pink, but she’d spend a month making it for my birthday, so I don’t want to leave that behind when I go.

I want to hover around in my ghostly form, and watch my mom cooking pasta in the kitchen, my father messing with the car in the garage, and when all of my aunts and uncles and cousins come over to cry over my ugly picture on the mantle, I want to stand off to the side, silently. Because it’s familiar, not being noticed I mean.

I wonder if anyone will even know I’m dead. Or if I’ll have moved too far away from everyone for them to reach me. Maybe someone will find me ‘sleeping’, smelling up the place and finally decide to call the cops or something.

Or maybe I’ll be on a cruise – like that’ll actually happen, but hey, I’m still young so I may learn to love those old people things. I’ll be leaning on the railings, and fall, and because I’m just so damn quiet, no one will realize I’m drowning until they’re miles away. And I can’t swim, so, there’s no way I’m getting back to the boat.

When I die, I want my death to be loud and obnoxious, something I never had the guts to be in life. I want fireworks, and arguments over what flowers to place on my grave, and the satisfaction that every time someone thinks of me, they want to scream – either from the pain of missing me, or frustration, or anger because they hated me so damn much.

I want a 6am parade that wakes up those people next door, the ones who always told me to pick up my pants because they were hanging too low and showing my ass. They know they loved looking at it, those pervs.

And I want thick socks, because they’re probably gonna put me in that part of hell that actually freezes over.

When I die, I’m giving all of my Pokemon cards to Charles, because hes the only one I know who still plays the game. I want my clothes burned so no one can look as good as me, and I want to give my stash of money to my mom so she can finally get her hair done by professionals. My dad can have my phone, because god know he needs something other than his ’90’s flip phone, with half of the buttons no longer working. Everything else I have, they can do what they want with it. I never really cared for it anyway.

And when I die, I want to die peacefully and painlessly.

I don’t want a heart attack, or those weird parasite that you can only get from the Amazon that eat your brains or something. I want to be like those old people who know their going, and kiss their grand kids’ foreheads, hug their children, then fall asleep.

That’s what I want.

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