Zero Fucks To Give

We used to be told all of humanity had two things in common: Death and Taxes; but as many government mandates and loopholes show, death is the only commonality amongst the classes these days.

There’s no avoiding it.

We can rail against the dying light, make Death drag us kicking and screaming into the void, but in the end, She gets us all.

Yes, Death is a woman. Makes sense, since a woman pushes you into the world, she’s gonna be the one to drag you out. Ya know, like our mothers always said “I brought you into this world, I can take you out.”

So She’s coming. She’s got us all on her list and one day She’ll collect us and take us…well, wherever we think we’re going after we die. For some there’s Heaven to look forward to, or Hell to fear. For other’s they hope their karma is good enough to bring them back in a better place than they were leaving. For people like me, there’s nothing. Once the heart stops, the breath is gone and the brain is no longer firing there is only silence.

The End. Fin. Kraj. 終わ. 結束. Το τέλος. Конец. Konec. النهاية.

Pick a language, it doesn’t matter, it’s over.

I don’t fear death. When my time comes then I’ll accept it, embrace Her and walk into the void, hoping I have no regrets when I do. I’m not running towards my demise or anxiously awaiting the day this bleak existence finally comes to a grand finale, but I’m not going to pretend the ending will be any different than the billions of people who have died before me. I’m not the exception to this rule.

No one is.

Instead, when I was younger reading about vampires, fae or other immortal beings I fantasized about what I would do as time endlessly turned each year, decade, century, millennium. I wrote a book about it once. An immortal, unable to die, sitting upon a throne of broken clocks, watching history form, burn and become reborn. Generational Phoenixes rising from the ashes of failed civilizations. A timekeeper unable to end her pitiless life.

It was a good story. Sadly, those were the days of floppy and 3.5″ disks storage. No digital ether to safely tuck our memories and stories into. All it took was one ill placed fridge magnet to wipe that epic compilation of lonesome adventures. I’m pretty sure I wept endless tears…or shrugged it off with a groan. I don’t remember. I wrote a lot of stories back then. When my imagination wasn’t tainted by reality, and free time was literally free.

In the beginning, Horatia (of course that was her name, it literally means timekeeper) would record what she saw, but soon realized no matter who took power the cycle of their rise and fall was the same. She grew bored with humanity’s lack of imagination. Once in a while one would catch her eye and she would pick up her chisel/stylus/pen and starting writing again. This was my way of explaining sporadic documentation of early civilizations and explain the cycles of history. Any historian, or someone who can look beyond propaganda can see the repetitive cycles of civilizations.

Power. Control. Corruption. Chaos. Revolution.

Wash. Rinse. Repeat.

But, I digress. Politics and Religion I’ll save for another day, today’s soapbox is about what happens when those two things, and a million others, no longer matter.

I’ve studied and seen enough in my current 43 years that I no longer wish for immortality, or to even live past 80. Anything more than that and I would end up stark raving mad, I’m sure. I want just enough time to stand in the shadows of the past, absorb the passage of time run through me as I recite nerdy little facts of the historical sites I’m visiting; to see Spawn find her own place in the world; and maybe just once, fall unapologetically, head over heels in love with someone who wants to keep up with me. Not asking for too much, am I?

With those accomplished I’ll resignedly take hold of Death’s icy fingers and sail, head high, to Valinor for the fantastical life of an elf.

But…

When I die, I want only tears of laughter. I have not lived a life that should be mourned, but rather, celebrated.

Y’all shouldn’t miss me, like at all. You should be breathing a collective sigh of relief that the Crystal Coaster has finally come to a stop. That you no longer have to worry about me finding bears and going in for a hug. Or wandering off a cliff because I was too but taking a selfie to see the drop off. Or being kidnapped in some remote country and stealing a page from Spawn’s playbook to take over the cartels. All of which I’m sure will, and in one case, has, happened.

I want stories of the adventures I went on. About each time I’ve been arrested (four and counting). I want a game where you guess how many warrants there were/are once I’m dead (two and counting). How many drag races against the police I’ve won (one, and counting). How I ran a scam on my friends at the age of 11 until it came to an abrupt end because I grew greedy. The many times I have tested the narcotic waters and almost died.

Because, my gawd, I have lived.

I thought I had no adventures to speak of, that I lived a quiet and mundane life but I was wrong. I have so many escapades that have shaped who I am. I have met so many people that I have influenced who I am, and who I continue to be.

We all have them, so while I tell mine here for posterity and material for my Eulogy, I encourage you all to start writing or telling yours. Share them with the young people in your life, the old ones, the strangers at the bus stop. You’ll find you have done so much more than you thought. Had far more fun than you remember. That we are more than just the sum of our career paths and financial accomplishments.

It’s not ‘”He who has the most toys, wins”, rather,

“She who has the most stories, never dies.”