Please force celibacy on my wife and encase me in resin to scare children…
Off to Oahu tomorrow morning for yet another damn ear surgery. Oof, no fun. But I’ve been here before, recovery’s not a problem, just some pain and patience and before you know it everything is a-okay.
I’m going under general anesthesia though, and I hate that shit. Plenty of people don’t wake up, and that’s not how I want to go out.
“Count backwards from ten…” Transition to endless nothing.
In the event that I don’t wake up, that an out-patient procedure proves to be my pathetic undoing, I’d like to leave behind my final requests.
We’ve talked it over, and I’ve myself very clear that she is NOT to move on with her life. No remarriage, no finding solace in another’s arms. In her wedding vows she swore to throw herself on my funeral pyre so she could continue to serve me in Valhalla (that’s what you get when you make me write them for you), but I know she won’t.
Not that I’ll know if you follow through. If there is an afterlife (there isn’t) I’ll be too busy haunting everyone who’s ever wronged me (I keep a list!) to make sure my wishes are followed
Don’t worry about who deserves what, just deliver some good old fashioned frontier justice on my behalf. I’m talking post French revolution Reign of Terror vibe. Hold everyone accountable, regardless of culpability.
Make sure my wife remains celibate
We’ve talked it over, and I’ve myself very clear that she is NOT to move on with her life. No remarriage, no finding solace in another’s arms. In her wedding vows she swore to throw herself on my funeral pyre so she could continue to serve me in Valhalla (that’s what you get when you make me write them for you), but I know she won’t. Cuz Valhalla ain’t real, and if it were I’m damn sure dying on an operating table wouldn’t get you there.
Don’t donate in my name
Send flowers. They’re wasteful, pointless, and won’t mean a thing to the rotting hunk of meat that previously contained my identity. And I think that’s kind of funny.
Speaking of that hunk of meat…
Disposal of corpse
I’d like my former body to be arranged in a suitably scary position, sealed in a large block of resin, and used to scare children. Like, kid won’t eat his broccoli? That’s two hours locked in a closet with Rory.
Everyone wants to leave a legacy, an entire generation of emotionally scarred children should be mine.
I know the technology doesn’t exist, yet. But, when it does, I’d like a few dozen Rorys grown in a lab, then pitted against each other in a winner-take-all death match. This will create a sort of super-me, bigger, stronger, faster, smarter, more cunning, which will then overthrow the galactic empire and take control of spice mining operations on Arrakis.
You can likely find some usable DNA in one of the crusty socks under my bed that the wife is always telling me to clean up because “they’re fucking disgusting.”