Everything. Everyone. Everywhere. Ends.

When I die, I want to be cremated. Well, I kinda want to be sired and become a libidinous vampire walkin' around suckin' necks and living a life without consequences in a sexy little number similar to this.

But let's face it, vampires only exist in Sunnydale and in all honesty, I don't really want to kill people. I suppose it's the outfits and the whole 'satiating one's appetites without consequences' that I find appealing. But alas, I realize that can never happen; whether I'm alive or dead.

So, cremation it is. And after reading this article, Funeral Home Blocked From Performing Eco-Friendly "Liquid Cremation," I would like it done that way, please.

I've been to a total of five funerals; the father of the boy who lived across the street from me growing up and my grandparents'. My paternal grandfather was my first experience with death and quite honestly, I don't remember much of it. I was in the 5th grade and my mom pulled me out of school so we could head up for the services, leaving me missing out on the class trip to the circus the next day. I remember being in my grandparents' house but I don't really remember the service or the burial. I wasn't terribly close with that grandfather and really, there's not an awful lot I remember about my last year of elementary school anyway. I was a bit older when the father of the boy who had lived across the street died but the only thing I remember about that was going to calling hours, giving him a hug and saying, "I wish you still lived across the street," and immediately thinking, "Christ, Janelle, what a fucking stupid thing to say. He hasn't lived across the street in years and you aren't even friends anymore and all he wishes right now is that his father wasn't dead."

My maternal grandmother was ... the big one. Her death was the first time I felt like the ground had just caved in underneath me and that the world would never be the same again. I've since learned that the world does, indeed continue to turn, but I was right that it would never be the same. I remember everything about that experience but one of the clearest memories is when it was time to go up to her casket and 'say goodbye' at the calling hours. They had dressed her in some outfit that was light blue and she looked creepily pale (for as far back as I can remember, she sucked down Tareyton 100s like they were going out of style and sat out in the sun every chance she got). I remember my mom holding my hand as I kissed my grandmother's forehead, thinking how ... hard she felt. Nothing like the hugs and kisses she had given me over the years that were soft and warm and comforting. It was at that moment that I knew I wasn't kissing my grandmother goodbye so much as I was just kissing a dead body.

And I knew right then that I don't ever want that. I understand funeral services and burials aren't for the dead but for the living. I get that they're a way for those who are left behind to attempt to get some closure after a loss and I'm okay with that. If, when I'm dead and gone, people want to get together and remember and celebrate the times we had together back when I was living, I want them to have that. Provided they don't put me in a casket and set me out on display.

But in addition to not wanting to the be the dead center of attention in a room full of mourners, I simply don't want to be stuck underground in a box. I hate when people try to put me in one while I'm living and I sure as hell don't want people putting me in one for all eternity. Provided I don't die of some horrible disease that eats away at my entire body, I'm also hoping to have a bunch of healthy parts left to give to someone.

Basically, once I bite the big one, if there are usable parts, I want someone to have them. Then I would like to be dissolved via the process mentioned above. Pour the 'liquid me' down the drain and give the 'crushed bones me' to whomever may be the appropriate person at that time in my life. Whomever that is, please take me to Portland, Maine and scatter me into the ocean.

And if, somewhere in the process, you could work the following song into the soundtrack of my death, I promise not to come back and haunt you.

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