I saw my first dead body when I was twelve. It was my grandfather, and it was weird.
I want to talk to the person who decided it was a good idea to drain all the natural fluids out of a body, replace said fluids with chemicals, put makeup on the body, dress it up in clothes you'll recognize, and present it to you as a loved one.
Because, honestly, that shit is fucked up.
Am I scarred from my grandfather's viewing? No, but I could tell by looking at him it wasn't him. Not anymore. His skin was gray. The amount of makeup he was wearing would have made Tammy Faye proud. His lips looked weird, like they had deflated. Forget about touching him! You want to scare the piss out of a child? Take them to the viewing of a body. And then tell them they have to touch it.
That's why I say, Burn me. I don't need to take up more space and resources than I did when I was alive. Scatter the ashes or don't. I can guarantee you I won't give a shit. I won't be looking down from the sky wondering why you didn't buy the Guilt Me Into Turbo II, even though the mortician said it was the best casket on the market. And a real steal at $7000.
While, yes, I do want to give my vegetables the very best, there is no way in hell I'm paying $7000 in Tupperware for them to rot in.
The death business preys on people who are emotionally confused, emotionally hurting, emotionally vulnerability, and it's bullshit.
Anyway, this holiday weekend, let's remember what connects us: being alive. So let's not only remember those who are dead, but remember those who are standing right next to us. Memorize their faces. Because, one day, they'll never look like that again.
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