The Unofficial Will, Officially

Before we leave, it’s been insisted that we create a will.

My original thought was to just mess with everyone. I think that will take years, though, to figure out. I want to exact subtle revenge on people through my will, but I want it to be perfect. I want them to laugh when they figure out why they’ve been gifted what they’ve been gifted, and I want them to love me all the more for my horrid sense of humor.

The only problem seems to be that I have no earthly possessions to disperse and no real desire to be resuscitated past the logical points.

So here’s this, just in case the will is improperly notarized or something:

Resuscitate me, sort of. Wait long enough to make sure I’m really brain dead before you pull the plug. And I mean long enough. (Like three months, if it’s not too much to ask. Unless insurance won’t cover it and in that case, stop supporting my breathing and metabolizing of liquids as soon as the coverage stops. It’s not worth it if I’m not coming back.)  Donate all of my organs (at least the usable ones). Plastination (the Body Worlds thing) is not an option, don’t even think about it.

Power of attorney and such : Mom.

I keep joking with Mom that I’m going to give Cat to her, but in all honesty, I love my cat way too much for that to happen. Give him to someone who will love him, maybe Dad.

Simon can go to Madeline Hosanna, because she’ll adore him. (Mom’s name is on the title as well as mine, so maybe in the end, she’ll want to keep him.)

Send Hunter my Tarot cards, just to freak him out.

Make sure that my voodoo doll is always facing some sort of south, if possible, or a window. He’s particular about those things.

Don’t bury me with shoes or socks on. Seriously. I won’t be able to sleep. But do bury me with Buddy, my childhood Teddy bear (yes, the capitalization is proper).

Or, don’t bury me at all and spread my ashes in Chicago, by the lake, near the L tracks, on Lake Shore Drive, and at Red Rocks, in the cemetery there or somewhere in the mountains, and then downtown. Don’t have me compressed into jewelry.
There’s a catch to the ash thing and that’s the statue. I want a statue. Huge. (I mean, life size or better.) Of an angel that magically resembles me. She’s wearing a toga-like Greek dress and holding a book and a pen and smiling and has humongous wings. And she’s barefoot. And her hair is down and wild. That’s the only way you can cremate me. Give me a sweet statue with some strange quotes or life facts. I want people who see it to wonder who I was in real life and then Google me.

Give all of my possessions to people who need them. Give Grandma my rings, she knows how much they mean to me.

My diaries and writings all belong to Mom, who should do something with them. Don’t burn them.
She can have my Birkenstocks, too. But my mountain backpack should go somewhere wonderful.

Give Mike my cell phone, he’ll break his and need the extras. He’ll want my laptop, too.

Now for the particular stuff I’ll be quite upset if you don’t follow:

My funeral should be a party. Seriously. Two drink minimum. And then the speeches can begin. At first I thought it might be nice to have a posthumous roast, but then I decided I’d rather you all pretend I have no flaws and instead, give drunken speeches toasting my accomplishes (including my ability to use the English language correctly) – accomplishments, sorry, my adventures and my spirit. So I think everyone should have two strong drinks (at least, but if you have more don’t drive) and then tell funny, touching, or just plain beautiful stories about me. Obviously you’d be doing that anyway, it’s my funeral/wake/after party.  And wear black, or don’t. If you’re up to it, maybe it should be a fancy dress and/or costume party. But maybe not. Tears are hell on silk.

If it’s cheaper, feel free to buy my casket at Costco.

There. Done.
Will created, sort of. (I’m sure lawyers would look at this and laugh, but it’s here and it’s in my hand  – as much as typing from your blog can be considered in your own hand.)

Also, did you know that Mike is worth more than me on life insurance? How unfair is that?

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