Look, if the song starts out with a harmonica, count me in. But not in public. I have this weird reaction to certain sounds, I will instantly cry. Harmonicas make the list. But fuck I love them. Sirens, fireworks, live music, especially horns…I am a mess. I have always been this way. And it is kind of nice to know my family is the same way. I say kind of because while there is some comfort in it, there is also the knowing we are all out here walking around crying at the parades and concerts around the world. I try my best to prepare for it, but it is a wave of big emotions. I can feel it starting to gather in my stomach and then reach out to my fingertips and make its way back up my arms, rush down my legs and then shoot straight up my body, swelling my nose when it reaches my face, and shuts down all circuits in my brain. Just a total power outage. My nose swells when I cry. I think most people have this reaction, no? But mine gets fat and since I have such a thin nose I usually stop to stare at myself in the mirror after I have gotten it out of my system. Then I laugh and my top lip is a little larger too and naturally I want to put on lipgloss and see what it feels like to glide a lip brush along a lip with the bounce that got left in my twenties. Not everything fails to return. If even for a moment. However, if I was able to catch some old man going to town on a harmonica in the middle of a tornado following a firework show and the warning siren for the tornado… I would take my mouth on a walk in the chaos. Show that top girl off and become a storm chaser. “Lips, we got lips”, not cows. This morning I woke to a text I had been waiting for. Someone we knew passed away. I felt sadness of course. Just the finality of it. Like ok. And I have this thing about death where I instantly try and picture where their body is in that exact moment and this one and this one…because I get obsessive. But it ain't like they moving a lot so I don't have to think too hard. But I do get into the details. I imagine the last time I saw them, their struggles, the way their mouth moved, and usually a significant conversation we had. Then I cannot eat for a while because I got too detailed in my thoughts and suddenly everything I am eating is some part of the autopsy. And then I imagine where they are right now. They. Their soul. Who they are. Not what carried them on this earth. And I feel like I can receive some peace from a thought I think they would share from this place they are now. But that peace will certainly be disrupted if I end up attending their funeral and get the nervous laughter that is without a doubt to come. I have been kicked out of funerals and weddings and conversations and plenty of offices for just losing it. I like to think the person who passes finally understands this concept from the other side. I certainly hope so, and I certainly hope this man has finally found his peace. 

I started making notes and telling my friends how I wanted my funeral to go when I was about 13 or 14. I had a near death experience with my family and it really changed how I looked at life and death. I stopped fearing both and wanted to have some control in the end if I could. Imagine that. Everyone was to wear khaki pants and black tops, and I wanted Ryan Adams “Come Pick Me Up” played. To this day, I can almost confidently promise I have never had a day pass that I do not listen to this song at least once. A song with a strong usage of the word “fuck” that I can scream when driving or vacuuming or exercising…or leaving random notes about my funeral instructions, sign me up. Although I have never been decisive about burying vs cremation. I always say I just hope they never find me! I would like to imagine I will be like the Lorax. I will grab my little nub to activate flight and float off into the beam of light in the sky while screaming the lyrics to “Come Pick Me Up” with a strong emphasis on “fuck me up” as I look back down on all of earth and cry at the fireworks that special someone I told to shoot off when I die is going to be shooting off. And then boom. Vanish. I hope all of our exits are that magical and ridiculous. I hope everyone is laughing at my funeral and no one is eating because, ew. I hope I do a few minutes of gifting for my girls and swell their upper lips and I hope all the assholes that show up get a fat nose. I hope people feel how they want to feel and not how they think they are supposed to. Brad all excited now like Mr. O’Hare in the Lorax singing “Let it die, let it die…” stomping his foot and clapping. Calm down bro, one, “it” is already dead and two, I also left instructions you are not welcome. Remember, we never officially dated anyway (take note that was not a question and rather a statement…momma learns quick)! I love kid movies. Genuinely love them. When I have a hard time processing things and don't want to process anything, Disney app here I come. One time I dated this man whose parents had a magical basement to me. It was walls of built in shelves with every Disney movie original on VHS, the comfiest couch you could imagine, carpet, and I am feeling like possibly a fireplace. Oh and raccoons! They would come to the deck and you could feed them,  but that was upstairs out of the sliding glass door which was in the dining room/kitchen. But still…I know, it really does sound like I am just fucking making that up and talking about one of the Disney movies, but I promise, thats how magical this was, at least to me. Rainy, simple, home. Sometimes I go to that place in my head when I get super stressed out. Could you imagine if they knew that or could sense me there in their minds. They would be like get the fuck out, Snow White. Hah! This reminds me. Once when our friend and co-worker was leaving the company he bought us each little bobble head characters that reminded him of us. I saw them and thought hands down I was Jessica Rabbit. Hate to admit it, but I did. I mean I was still in my twenties and it didn't take crying to fake an abundance of collagen throughout my body like little Rabbit lady. Anyway. Nope. I was Snow White. And "why???" I asked…There were definitely both questions and statements, but I wanted answers (just like Zak Bagans). “Well, you are always surrounded by men…” Touché.  And that was that. I really do let some things go.

I like straight shooters. Duh. I like people who say how they feel, acknowledge yet challenge reality, and honestly never give up on discussions. But I can feel when something is missing and when something doesn’t belong. And sometimes I can feel my spots getting licked off and I instantly become bland. It is only a temporary layer. You know damn well there is another about to surface and it is going to be full of color and vibrant. This is my lull and recovery layer. I reached that layer this weekend. The text this morning licked the last little colored spot off of me and I realized I needed to just think about some things EVEN MORE. My poor fucking brain. She gonna be highly rewarded in her next life. Lazy river and margaritas brain with a soul who loves drinking water and forgetting what no longer serves it. I already don't like the sound of this person and to think of my brain starting a new life with them once I Lorax out of here has me writing instructions that if my body is found to in fact incinerate my brain with the hope she has no chance to go into another life with this water drinking fool. The one some dude marries and everyone says, “well she’s just great” and they actually mean it because thats the level of simplicity she has achieved. Her skin may be so dewy from all the water, but I guarantee as a result you got yourself a plain white jawbreaker and thats just great for you and I actually mean that. I just don't want my brain going to that body. And yes, I know they don't recycle brains, I am just saying like if a brain was reincarnated, iffffff that was a thing, I would want to be able to tell my brain what to do (duh), who she could belong to (duh), because I love her (duh), and I am thankful for her (duh). But since it is not, and since I am here still processing death the very way I do, I will leave it be. I have bigger fish to fry, like where the hell is the dog I picked up on Friday going to go? Brains go nowhere when we die. Dogs have to go somewhere good or they die. A lady has a foster home and rescue for him in Boston and I am like ummmm that is the saddest little thing to me. I feel homesick for him just thinking of it. And the little man doesn’t even have a home. He totally thinks I am his momma now. I even use my momma disciplinary tone with him when he refuses to leave his tiny paws on the floor instead of on my body. He is the littlest thing and my voice is not. He usually runs backwards a good 3 ft, sits, turns his head sideways and looks at me like whoa, she got serious all of a sudden. Just a second ago we were singing songs with a solid usage of the F word, she was letting me sniff her hair and nibble on her ear, and she was making up cool stories and putting me in them. I did one thing she did not like and she raises her voice, changes her tone and cuts me out and off. Yes. Yes I did. Because you are not mine and I already love you. If I hold on to you, my heart will break. I hope you love me the same to know what I mean, but I fear you are too playful. It is hard to decide if I am a slave more to my mind or to my heart. But no one is asking me to, so who cares. Now go pack yo bags, you're going to Boston. Certainly the distance will help. Just kidding. I could never let him go that far. It is an option. However, his paws scratching at my legs while I attempt to brush my hair for the first time in a week certainly is not.