You think I'm being really lazy, but I was busy this weekend with my tennis racquet swatting at the bats that were flying around inside my head. Dreaming that calm soldiers with dark mustaches and olive green uniforms and warm-brown colored skin overtook our apartment because they needed a post with our view of downtown and the beach. The soldiers turned out to be the occupying force of someone hilariously peaceful that only makes sense in a dream, I think it was the Protectorate of Buttercream.
Everything went two degrees sideways this weekend because I spent three days writing a will. Nothing makes your heart swell with simple misery more than imagining the least psychotic members of your family raising your almost-two-year-old son if your plane to or from Honolulu crashes into the Pacific next week. Your almost-two-year-old son who right now has a little bowl of parmesan cheese next to his morning Cheerios while he watches Mr. Noodle and Elmo discuss birthday cakes. Will Uncle Stinky and Aunt Ph.D. let him sprinkle parmesan into his grapefruit juice? Should I put it in the will that he loves Harry Potter and wants to go to the zoo every day so they better become members, or will his new mommy and daddy have to figure out what "ghee-RAFF!" means without my legal assistance?
I'd probably end up haunting them for awhile to find out how it goes. You know, slamming cabinet doors in the middle of the night if they give him a stupid haircut that makes him cry.
I called my best girlfriend from high school when I was deep into a gloomy Saturday morning because I couldn't go on thinking this way. I needed a woman who just had a cancerous organ removed from her throat to tell me to shut the fuck up and quit worrying about dying.
The one thing that finally cheered me up was writing detailed instructions for the executor on how to post a death notice on my blog.