The Art of Living

Nothing--not Anne Heche's 20/20 interview with Barbara Walters; not being stuck in an elevator with a fat man while I'm holding a sandwich; not even Michele Bachmann living in the White House--scares me more than dying.

You're probably thinking, 'No shit. That's an easy call.' And you'd be right. Dying is terrifying for most of us. But for me, it's not the idea of no longer existing or the idea of facing the unknown that scares me the most: It's what I'll miss.

What if To Kill A Mockingbird or The Night Circus or Geek Love had been written after 2173 and I never cracked their stiff spines only to soften them in a matter of days? What if Anne Hathaway had been born after I died and she didn't get to break my heart in such a gloriously unexpected way in Les Miserable? Don't even get me started on Jessica Chastain, Tina Fey, and Portlandia.

While there are plenty of people who think God has a fabulous library, a state-of-the-art home theater system where he gets the biggest blockbusters before Netflix, and holds a new gallery opening on the second Tuesday of every month in his floating sky-house, I don't prescribe to such comforts. When I'm gone, that's that. And with me, everything I've massively, lovingly appreciated will melt away with the burning of my lifeless body.

I'll not miss the bullshit of people, but goddamn, I'm going to miss the art of living.