Well, I`m officially dying. I`m having some kind of horrible allergic reaction to something, I don`t know what it is, and I`m getting bumpier, redder, and more freaked out by the second. I think my heart will probably explode soon.
No, you can`t have my stuff. If I know you, chances are you`ve already come over and robbed my shit anyway. If I know you, you probably know that I`d approve. You better also know that if you don`t throw the most epic fucking party ever for my funeral, I`ll come back and haunt you all forever.
And I`ll know. I`ll be looking up and WATCHING that shit. Entertain me, you lively bastards, you.
Someone better crack a bottle of vodka over my casket. Also, if there`s not a symbolic martini sitting on top of my casket throughout the entire thing, and if no one drinks, smokes or otherwise engages in some kind of shifty behaviour, and if a certain friend who-shall-remain-nameless-but-everyone-better-know-who-I-mean doesn`t show up and either break or piss on something I love (not my coffin- I`m not nearly enough of a fan of that for it to really count), and if my funeral isn`t used as a massive excuse to just sit around and blaspheme about things, I`ll have died in vain. Seriously.
Also, if someone could put an axe, an oxygen tank, and a mini-shovel in my coffin right before I get dirt thrown down on me, that`d be great. I don`t want any fuck-ups. I saw Kill Bill 2- I couldn`t punch my way out of a soggy paper bag, let alone a wooden casket.
No comments:
Post a Comment