I just fled from a wake for a friend of mine.
I do not like these somber affairs where people talk amongst themselves and then maybe, just maybe, get up the gumption to tell stories of the deceased.
Where they drink caffeinated beverages and look at photographs and wonder if they took the deceased for granted, wonder if things would have been different if they had called when they meant to, if they had visited more often, if they had done something, anything differently.
Fuck. That. Noise.
When I die, let there be a party. Let the whiskey flow freely, let the stories be filled with more dirty details than you would have ever included in my lifetime. Talk shit about me, laugh at my mistakes, enjoy how impossibly, remarkably human I was. Enjoy the ways I made you laugh, lament the ways I made you furious, remember the adventures we had. Drink more whiskey. Dance, sing, do the fuckin’ can-can.
If you don’t leave the wake for Whiskeypants laughing, if you aren’t drunk (or actually on the wagon), if you didn’t have a fantastic time…? Well, fuckin’ do it again until you get it right.
When I die, remember this. Because I will come back to haunt your ass and make you miserable if you don’t.
