If I die in a shooting, here is what I want you to do:
If I die in a shooting, I want you to know I tried to get away, cause I dearly, dearly love life and I’m right in the middle of a very stupid romance novel but I still wish I could have read the ending because I love sappy drivel like that.
If I die in a shooting, I want you to have someone else clean out my room. Don’t save any of it, it’s just stuff. Remember me when you laugh at the wrong time. Also, have one of my friends clean out the second drawer of my nightstand. Just trust me.
If I die in a shooting, I want you to make the day about you, to really honor my death. Make it about you. That’s what I would love.
If I die in a shooting, please know that I cried in my car twice on Thanksgiving cause I missed you guys so much and I promised myself that no matter what I would come home next year (even though being home is hard and emotional and makes me want to scream).
If I die in a shooting, you should know that the last thing I was thinking about was probably something really funny to me like dear god no, don’t let this be the end…but also wouldn’t it be funny if I farted right now, right here? Because that’s how I am. A little sick. A little dark.
If I die in a shooting, please move on as swiftly as possible. If I didn’t come from a family of weepers, I would ask you not to even cry, but that’s not real. The other day I cried about the sieges on the Library of Alexandria. I know you’ll cry. But I’d prefer if you’d laugh.
If I die in a shooting, you should know that I loved it all. Even the bad minutes of life and I’ve been so fucking lucky that I haven’t had many. I loved them. I’m so glad I got this many moments.
If I die in a shooting, you should know that I lied about having seen Spice World.
If I die in a shooting, it will really ruin my plans to wear a hot dog suit in my open casket so I’m really hoping I don’t. Also I want to see all the kids grow up. And I wanted to have read at least one book by Hemingway, but I never got around to it. And I wanted to have made out with someone at the movies—I’ve never done that.
If I die in a shooting, please please please don’t wait to politicize it. Don’t honor me that way. I’m gone. Don’t wait until someone else is, too. Politicize the living hell out of it. Scream until they listen. Because if I for a second thought I could look back on earth and see that I was dead and nothing had changed, I would haunt the hell out of my local congressman.
If I die in a shooting, maybe you’ll finally get rid of the guns that are in the guest bedroom closet. I never liked sleeping so close to death.