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Today escalated into exhaustion after I left work for the day. For starters, I was at work an hour longer than I had originally planned (not problematic because I need the extra hours/money). I hopped the train home, initially forgetting I needed to run errands to pick up W-2s from my sister and my medications from Duane Reade. Fortunately I caught myself on time to switch trains. I stopped by my sister’s apartment to check in, say hi to the little monkey, and get my mail. I was not paying attention to time as much as I should have been, so it was getting later than I realized, but I headed to pick up my meds regardless. And then I found out that I didn’t have the right information to pick up my meds (frustrating), followed by, “oh wait, if xyz is your healthcare now we actually don’t take that insurance at this pharmacy anymore.” I’m sorry, what? Your pharmacy does not accept my insurance? I have too many goddamn things to worry about accepting my insurance and now I have to add “find pharmacy that accepts your insurance” to the list. “Let’s make healthcare as fucking difficult and expensive as possible,” is pretty much the memo I’ve gotten since trying to swim upstream on figuring everything out. No one has any answers, and those who “have answers” are simply repeating a script that you’ve already read. Nobody really knows how to help. And it’s frustrating and alienating. Blech. That was an unintentional rant. Needless to say my exhaustion and frustration levels rose rapidly. My evening has been less successful than I’d hoped.

What I would actually like to write about this evening is something deeply morbid and (I think) fascinating. I had another afternoon spent in the “In Memoriam” exhibit and I started to consider how I would want people to remember me in my passing. It seems worthy of a post. Not that I expect to have a sadly shortened life, but working at my museum makes me realize how short life is so it is constantly important to be reflective, and to cherish every moment and waste no time. (I’m still working at those last two…I forget to cherish moments and I often waste time.) For starters, for the love of Mother Earth, please do not choose photos of me that are blurry or unhappy. I want to be remembered laughing or goofing off. I want to be remembered making goofy faces, and never too serious. Maybe one serious photo, if you must. Maybe I should just keep a folder of photos on my desktop that reads “For Katy’s Funeral in 2095” (yes that is correct, I am planning on living until 107, because that’s extremely reasonable). Every year I can start adding a few more. Just to keep it up to date (it would obviously be silly to have photos only from 1988-2015 when I will go on to live 80 more years). The biggest reason for this is because I look at so many photos and see forced smiles for a work photo, or a glamour shot, or something not worthy of a toothy grin or a big laugh. It furthers this pit of sadness, that a photo might not exist that shows this person in their element. Or if it does, the family didn’t realize it. In addition, I want to have ultimate say of what photos are used for a similar reason–my family might pick the worst photos! (No offense if you’re reading this.) Remember me as you like, but I’d like those who never knew me or didn’t know me as well to know what my spirit was really like (wild, crazy, loyal, caring, unpredictable, empathetic, and once in a blue moon apathetic–the first step is recognizing our faults right?).

My funeral will be one giant dance party. Maybe a small ceremony at the beginning (but the only burial will be the planting of a tree because I want to be cremated and turned into a tree). The music will be predominantly ’90s music (which will probably torture everyone at this point), and if you don’t get up and dance I will smite you (or the gods will or something). Yes, lots of dancing and drinking at my funeral. And Frangos. Please everyone eat Frangos at my funeral. And after the dance party begins everyone will be asked to write a letter to a loved one (friend or family) who they haven’t spoken to in a while to remind them how much they love them and all that jazz. Because life is short and we exist on this earth to ease each other’s loneliness and foster success in others. Or something. If all my dogs are still alive when I die (I plan to be an old dog lady), one by one they can be buried in the shade of the tree that grew from my ashes. In the end, I just want everyone to dance and sing and be happy. And if no one comes to my funeral, I just want all my dogs to find good homes. Okay? Great.

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