ASSIGNMENTS:
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Robby
Athens, Georgia USA
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REPORTS:
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When I was 18, my grandparents revealed they'd purchased a plot for my grave alongside their own. Though (like any number of their strangely-timed gifts) I appreciated the sentiment, I was, and remain, slightly vexed.
Let's get this straight: I never want to be interred... not one guilty hair on my head, not one pound of flesh.
Who wants the possibility of becoming a zombie? (I saw that movie, you know, the one.)
What I'd rather have happen is this: I die, whenever, whereever. Assuming my body is easily accessible to my next of kin, they should make certain a number of things happen. First, any viable organs should be donated to whatever organization can get them to where they need to go. Second, the bits that remain should be unceremoniously dumped into an easily transportable container. Third, someone (anyone, really) should take my remains someplace with a view. I promise not to be picky, in my garbage bag. I'm thinking somewhere at least as beautiful as Rabun County, Georgia... but intrepid souls could venture as far and as exotic as Cumberland Island or something. Whoever is unlucky enough to still be around should throw a party; everyone should have fun, no one should cry sad tears. When no one is looking, toss me into the bonfire. When the whole thing is done, when everyone is bleary-eyed, hungover, and sleepy in the bright early morning, scoop that junk up and toss it into the air like confetti.
Then go to my grave, dig a hole, and plant some kudzu. That stuff never goes away.
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