Wake me when it's over

I visited a cemetery the other day. In the service of an odd job (a job which didn’t involve a shovel, but thank you for asking).

Tombstones rarely speak of pain and pleasure, they just sing the praises of the eternal snooze. No details, of course; no promises that a given individual would feel this way or that the next morning. Maybe it’s a legal thing. If they did get more specific, maybe they'd have to go the Cialis route and give us the downside, something equivalent to the image of an erection lasting more than four hours.

Death holds little romance for me. We’re not friends. He stakes a claim WAY over there, I stake mine way over here. I don’t let him look in my windows.

Death and I only have four significant humans and six dogs in common. And I avoid any party or reunion where he’ll be present.

I don’t respect death, I don’t like his manners, I don’t like his breath. I don’t want to dance with him or see his door.

I most particularly mistrust his advertising campaign.

Rest in peace sounds okay on the surface, but everything in moderation.

Sure, sleep; take 10, 30 or even 50 years. As much as you need. In the case of extreme illness or old age, take a century, if necessary.

But the point is, don't go overboard. Don't sign off on the perpetual rest contact. Regardless of what the brochure may say, that ain't rest, that’s nothing.

When my time comes, I've done some homework and plan to negotiate.

The idea of ghosts has never frightened me. I find in them a ray of hope.

“Catherine Earnshaw, may you not rest so long as I live on! I killed you. Haunt me, then! Haunt your murderer! I know that ghosts have wandered on the Earth. Be with me always. Take any form, drive me mad, only do not leave me in this dark alone where I cannot find you.” Heathcliff, Wuthering Heights

All right, so in year 2220, Heathcliff's neediness might prove a little wearing. I still say it's better than nothing.

Or, with a little bit of luck, I just might get this instead.