♬ I just can't sleep ♬

In the past week, I have fully convinced myself of the following:

1. I'm finishing a project this week at work (and by "project" I mean I've been asked to haphazardly do three months of work in four weeks, the fourth of which we're now inYOU KNOW, THE WEEK THAT'S SUPPOSED TO BE THE NEW PEARL HARBOR, OR THE NEW 9/11. JUST A REAL LOW-STAKES, DOG-DANGLIN' KIND OF WEEK.), and I think I'm going to get laid off at the end of it. My bowels are not OK. Nobody asked, but I've been completely constipated for weeks, I cry at everything, and all I want to do is yell "fuck" at the top of my lungs into a pillowcase for 45 consecutive minutes in a government clean room.

2. I'm going to get COVID-19 and die. Much like how I convinced myself that I was going to die after 9/11 and started to wear my retainer again so I wouldn't go to hell, I'm now sure that I'm going to get the coronavirus, and my fat fucking stoner lungs are going to hit the snooze button one too many times and crap out on me, and I'm going to die. Like, I believe this. To quote the very serious lawyer in the very whimsical polka dot tie from Tiger King, "There is a god, her name is karma, and she has a sick sense of humor." 

I feel like my COVID death would be karma for how I've kind of put my life on cruise control for the past couple of years. I've wasted time, so now I'm going to lose it. Or not. I could live through this. But I probably won't. I don't know. My dad thinks I'll be OK. He also thought Hilary Clinton would win and doesn't know how to defrost meat. These are the things I think about.

Even though I'm half-joking about most some of this, it's brought me some kind of weird peace to think about my death plan. My mom had to make some very traumatic decisions when my aunt passed a few years ago, and it would suck for anyone to have to do that again. I'm not trying to be weird, I'm not trying to be a downer, I'm just saying it's worth thinking about. Food for thought:

Meghan C. Rowland's Official Death Plan 2020 Corona Get-Down©

I am OK with being put on life support, as long as it's a short-term solution and I'm not Terry Schiavo-ing all over the place. Not like any hospitals have time for that, I realize. Tick, tock.

Ideally, I would like to die in Maryland. When I pass, I would like NYC hero nurse/CRNA Eileen Meyer to pull the plug, if possible, while The Eagles' Greatest Hits plays. I would like to be cremated. I would like an elegant scoop of my ashes to go to my parents, an elegant scoop go to my sister, an elegant scoop go to Chris, an elegant scoop go to Eileen, and an elegant scoop to go to Alex. The rest I would like scattered in the Potomac River at Mount Vernon. (Or 50-feet away from Mount Vernon, per the Department of the Interior, National Parks Service, and www.novacremate.com.) I would like this to be followed by a boozy Bloody Mary brunch.

.........................My death wish sort of seems like a dark place to leave this post, so I leave you instead with an old friend:


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