I sincerely don’t like Januarys. Never have. Ice, snow, frigid temps, post-holiday blahs, too much time to think about bills, health issues…on and on.
So, what do I do to ‘therapize’ myself out of the funk? Certainly not what I did yesterday…which was to watch a movie called ‘The Savages’. Very well done by Laura Linney and Philip Seymour Hoffman…about two middle-aged siblings who are forced to care for their senile father, a man who was less than a great dad.
It starts with Dad’s girlfriend dying while getting a manicure, and Dad writing nasty words on the walls with his poop. It ends, of course, with Dad’s death. Two hours of gut crunching sadness. So helpful for my mood.
I have an idea. Let’s talk about my death. It’ll be fun!
Here’s what I think. Whenever I am facing something scary or painful, I get to a point of hardly being able to wait for it to happen, so it can be over and I can stop worrying about it. Like surgery, or dental appointments, or meetings with my accountant.
Now, I don’t want to die all of a sudden…here one minute, gone the next. I would feel cheated somehow by that sort of death. No, I want to know it’s coming and milk it for awhile. But I certainly don’t want to linger for months or years waiting for it to happen. (I’m talking about old-age death here…you know, where you can’t fulfill any of your last minute wishes, like getting laid one more time, or taking that trip you’ve always dreamed of.)
Laying in a nursing home listening to the old woman next to me farting, and wondering if anyone will visit me today. Here comes one of those bouncy little social workers to tell me that it’s craft hour in the lounge, and I should really join them, because they’re going to make lampshades out of popsicle sticks. What the hell? I’d rather decorate the walls with my poop.
I want to die in my bed, holding my dogs, listening to old rock music, stoned out of my mind on oxycontin, pot, five or six white russians a day… contentedly filling my diapers. Is that too much to ask? Imagine the wonderful fantasies I could have. Like Meryl Streep in ‘Out of Africa’…”Oh, kiss me again, Denis. My goodness, you’re pulling off my nightgown…be careful of that diaper, dear, it’s pretty full.”
Besides which, my sons have already told me that I’m on my own at the end. Insufferable little buggers. If I do need a nursing home, it’s up to me and the government to pay for that lodging. Medicaid will be my last, best friend.
I’ll die peacefully, of course…just sleep away. And then I’ll come back as a dolphin. (Not a whale, thank-you. I’ve been one of those for most of my life.) Dolphins stick together, and when one of them is dying the others all gather around and help them over to the other side….wherever that is. Everybody seems to love dolphins. No one hunts or kills them. No one tries to use them or push them out of their jobs. They have no debts, and can eat their fill without gaining weight. Yes, definitely a dolphin reincarnation for me.
But wait…before I’m reborn into the ocean depths, I want a chance to be a ghost for awhile. There are definitely some people I’d like to haunt…in a bad way. Scare the shit out of them. I don’t have many enemies, at least that I know of, but there are five people who deserve a good whacking. I’d like to cause them some grief for a few weeks. Makes me chuckle to think about it.
Well, that was fun wasn’t it? I know I feel better.
Have a good January my friends!
