to start off, I had a fun dream last night where my mom and sister’s cats escaped onto campus, specifically Sylvia and Parmesan. I got on a bike with a duffel bag and just started picking up kittens – by the end I had a full case of cats including Sylvia but no parm. Weird how dreams go sometimes.
I am a hypochondriac, if you didn’t know. Every ill within me is terminal, the slightest cough, cold, bruise, or sore is a sign of a body well into decay. I will die soon, this is certain.
I mean, it’s not. That’s why there’s a term for being insane about this stuff. And I’ve thought about it – a lot, recently, given the circumstances of my immune system. I’m very scared of blood clots, embolisms, which are super aggravated by smoking, lack of movement, coronavirus, and time spent on airplanes. So, as I get ready to get on a plane today, my brain is certain that at 30,000 feet, one tiny, compact ball of blood will make its way up my thighs and into my lungs or my skull and I’ll keel over unceremoniously in my cramped economy seating. And if by the grace of god I live to make it back to my apartment and my cats, it will surely take me within the week.
I don’t think I’m scared of dying, though. I don’t really feel any ways towards un-being, I mean, necessarily, you’ll never know that you died. You just sort of blink off, the cathodes in the tube tv firing one last time then going black. Once you’re dead, you can’t really perceive that. I mean, there is no you. I’m fine with that.
What I’ve realized is that I probably have something closer to early-onset deathbed regrets. When I think of dying, I don’t think of pain or anything, I think about all the things I’ll miss, the people, the experiences, soft lights and warm skin. It’s almost like FOMO. In my case, I think a lot of it is greed. There’s too many things I want to feel and see and do, yknow. I’m gluttonous, I’m avaricious, I want and want and want. I’ve oft been criticized (fairly) for having little to no aspirations. But I do have them, they’re just not status or material based. They’re all tactile, all emotional. And when I think about dying, I think about all the people I’ll never speak to again, the people I won’t touch, the friends and loves whose last memories of me will be god-knows-what. I want to live forever, not for any specific goal, but just because touching and feeling is so nice. Being so in love that your bones ache, being so heartbroken that you smile til your cheeks hurt, being so hungry that eating makes you laugh, being so comfortable that you drift in and out of a slow nap in a friends cold apartment, being so present and raw and sensitive to the world and the people in it that it’s impossible to want to be anywhere else. I guess that’s what I’m scared of – No more butterflies or laughing fits or hysteric episodes. I like feeling too much and the idea that one day I won’t be able to, well, i just feel insatiable. I could never eat my fill of this world.
so, if I die on this plane, remember me as a greedy person who just really liked the whole ordeal of living and would have definitely liked a little more time. Again, I won’t, I’m just anxious, but still, you never know.
If I die, just make sure my cats go somewhere safe and special. I don’t really care about anything besides that. Oh, there’s also a folder of things I want to say to people on my computer, print that off. For my funeral, cremate me or whatever and have an open bar. No churches, I want it to have more of the vibe of a wedding reception.
jeez, louise 