Monday, May 31, 2004
While normal people prepare their to-do list in the morning, I think about what mood I want to be in for the rest of the day.
That’s why I’m happy without reason, bitchy without excuse, and hopelessly depressed over nonsensical matters.
But I love it when I decide a day should be a “quiet day” and people would come up to me and say “are you feeling unwell?”
***
I was never afraid of death. It’s the process of dying that I’m afraid of.
I don’t want to be a statistic in road accidents.
I don’t want to be the body found in the parking lot.
If anybody would dare shoot me, I’ll beg that he shoot me in the head so I can be quick about it. Forgive me if I make a mess.
I hope somebody will have the decency
not to cover me with any tabloid or broadsheet.
Falling from a building is out of the question.
Dying of hypothermia is seriously considered.
Drowning is painful, as I have discovered a month ago. The ocean is so eerie that I’ll probably turn into a ghost.
I’m scared of chemotherapy. I was never even connected to a dextrose. Beneath the white-washed walls and alcohol scent, I find hospitals dirty.
They can do anything with my body parts. They could burn what’s left of it.
I don’t have any last will and testament (Books will go to friends who want it).
I hope that my friends and enemies alike leave my guestbook in peace.
I don’t want to go without experiencing love as I have read it from Anne Mather’s books. And before my expiration, I want to go to New Orleans, England, and Greece (plus a quick side trip to Rome for the ruins of Mt. Vesuvius).
I don’t want to live forever. But it would be wonderful if people still remember me ten years after I'm buried six feet under.
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