Nobody Fucks You When You're Dead

I need a shave, and a shower wouldn't hurt, either. My boudoir is clean and painfully well-organized, so I can get away with a little poor hygeine without feeling as if I'm falling apart. As we used to say in the psych ward, "There's nothing wrong that a shower wouldn't cure." Sometimes, I take two a day, and I enjoy cleaning every inch of my naked body. When I'm like that, I put the water up so high that I feel like I'm being sterilized in an autoclave. My favorite part to render immaculate and free of oil and grime is behind and inside my ears. It is, in the parlance of the day, "da bomb."

Incidentally, I know that a "boudoir" is a woman's bedroom. But I've never been big on the binary gender way of looking at things. Besides, I have boobs and I'm sans testicles, so I can use whatever fucking word I want.

Some days, however, I can barely force myself into a lukewarm shower, and I find the whole process irritating and disconcerting. Fortunately, for myself and those near me, this is rare. A gentleman told me that the cause is connected to my non-functioning thyroid gland. Something about sensitive skin and muscles. I can accept that...there are worse things out there.

I'm getting a serious case of déjà vu. If I've written this before, please forgive me.

An atheist organization to which I belong has an online discussion group. Somebody was talking about death and funerals, and how her mother (an alzheimer's victim) recently died. She was cremated and had no memorial. Since they knew she was dying, she argued, anyone who cared paid their respects while she was among the living. I'm strongly inclined against having a memorial, too. The discussion made me think of my own plans for the disposition of my fat body. I'm already a lifetime member of the Cremation Society of Massachusetts, and my desire to have a cremation with no memorial service is on file. For months, I was torn between flinging my ashes into the ocean off of Cape Cod (in an area specially sanctioned for such a thing) and having them stored next to my mother and father in Burlington; my mother is already there, and my father and I will be joining her in time. I've finally decided on the latter option, which means just a little more paperwork and I'm done. That comforts me, as does the knowledge that I carefully chose the cheapest way to get rid of my body short of a vat of acid or a shark-infested tank. Both of those seem a little James Bond, so this is as good as I can do. By the way, if you find my body, take out the CSM membership card (behind the picture of Donna) and call the toll-free number on the front, under my name. That way, they'll know to come get me and burn me and put me in a cardboard urn.

That's the other thing, the fucking urn. You should see the brochure I have, called, "Impressions." Some of these things are undeniably classy. One looks like a mini-sarcophagus, and many are very simple and elegant. Like your ashes are being held in the lobby of the headquarters of a mini-corporation. Or perhaps the main gallery of the MFA that you never visited in life, lost of clean lines and marble, and you're the art on display. That's not how I'd describe the one I scanned and posted above to the right, but hey, every asshole gets his or her own urn. A giant cigar that actually functions as a humidor in life to be used as an urn upon the owners death. Wow. If I had my choice, and money were no object, I'd want my fat-dust blown into Anne Coulter's face. Or Hannity or Limbaugh or any of those douchebags, you get the idea.

So my thoughts today are on death, and for that I apologize. Death takes care of itself, and should only be helped along if you are in some sort of pain that cannot be relieved. Think of the cutest person you know, the one you think about while pleasuring yourself. Well, so long as you're alive there is some chance you'll get into his or her pants. But nobody fucks a dead person. Just remember that, ladies and germs. Yes, it's crude and lacks the working-class genius of, "Get busy livin', or get busy dyin'." But there is definitely a crowd out there that will respond to my, "Life may be hard, but nobody fucks a dead guy." Or girl...you fill it in. Unfortunately, depression (and the medication frequently used to treat it) usually robs you of a libido. But for a ten-word slogan, I bet the The Samaritans would have a hard time improving on it.
The Samaritans. And for the suicidal teen, there is The Samara-Teens. Fuck off. I called that suicide hotline number precisely two times in my life, and they really pissed me off. They are trained to say nothing, just to listen. I called for advice, knowing that they weren't going to say, "Yeah, you should just kill yourself." So I wanted to hear things like, "You have a lot to live for, you're just in a bad place right now" and "You're in pain, my friend, go to the hospital and get some help...it will get better." Is that so hard? Instead, one hears some jackass play therapist poorly. Around the 10th time I heard, "Tell me how you felt about that," I snapped. I vaguely remember standing near the Boylston Street "T" stop in Boston, not too far from the Colonial Theatre, which I had been taking pictures of in an effort to distract myself from the void; didn't work. I said something like, "Listen you little turd, I didn't call this fucking thing to be mocked by a psychology grad student or a do-gooder prick with no social life. Propose this strategy at your next fucking meeting...talk like a human being and not Mr. Movie-Fone."

I know what I said, because I wrote it down after I said it in a notebook for a human evolutionary biology course called, "Human Variation" taught by Dr. Larry Green. Tough course. Quinine taste sensitivity or some fucking thing. Anyway, it amused me. And calling the couselor a "turd" actually carried emotional weight for me. I used the word around a girl I had fallen in love with and she said it was really gross. And it seemed to anger her a bit. Two months later, we had broken up. I don't think "turd" did it, but I never forgot my lack of couth. So I wore that "turd" like a badge in conversation. When I got upset, out came a "turd."

If you're ever suicidal, save yourself the trouble of calling The Samaritans and talk to your sock. It's bound to be more helpful. Try to enjoy life while you're alive, because nobody fucks you when you're dead.