Eulogies are a tricky thing. Obviously, you have to know the person you’re writing/speaking about, so that’s a big hurdle all in itself. Then you have to make it sound like it wasn’t scribbled on a stained bar napkin the night before, while you were “consoling the family” and easing their pain through tasty, tasty distractions. If you can get past that step, you should also at least try to make it sound somewhat-remotely-not-so-negative. Trying to stay reverently positive is one of those instructions that didn’t come in the manual of life, along with the fine art of deciding who goes at the stop sign, or knowing which way to turn the TV antenna (yeah, remember those? damn kids these days don’t know how good they have it.)
It also adds a level of difficulty to write a eulogy if it’s about yourself.
No, I’m not dead yet. Or at least, I’m fairly certain I’m pretty much alive. After staring at Census data and regression models since the summer, it’s pretty hard to discern the difference these days.
In a moment of self reflection, I decided to write a rough draft for whatever poor sop has to speak at my funeral. I’m picturing fireworks, tetris music, and a military enforced ban on annoying crying, with the thousands lined up waiting to rub my polished onyx tombstone for good luck and tabloid photographers snapping up pictures of my closed lacquered casket, since by that time I will be a mythical legend known throughout the land, like Big Foot, or Elvis.
A single stranger will be led via helper dinosaur robot to the glass podium (I refuse to die until helper dinosaur robots are a reality) and all of a sudden, cherry blossoms will start falling around the teary eyed masses. Because damn, nothing sets the mood like falling pink fluff.
So, stranger, whoever you are, here’s how I imagine your eulogy of me will sound like. Feel free to improvise and credit all awesome edits to myself.
“Here lies- well, no, she actually requested that her body be cremated and the ashes placed in the fireworks exploding above you, so please utilize your facility provided umbrellas and beware of fallout. Erm, so yes, there goes Chibichunsa, daughter, sister, friend, enemy, classmate, mild acquaintance and the creepy Asian girl who watches people on the lightrail.
She didn’t do anything all too spectacular in her life. She attended a couple colleges she didn’t particularly like or dislike. Life sort of swirled around her like the neighborhood jacuzzi; not quite hot enough to hurt but not quite cold enough to cause hypothermia. A word to describe her would be “moderate”: moderate effort, moderate gains, moderate consciousness and moderate amount of cares given. Well, that last piece is debatable.
She enjoyed… well, she spent her time doing things. Lots of things. Like, breathing. Or playing video games. Or eating. Or reading books. Or napping. Or petting her dog. She was a woman of many interests, you see, and with many interests comes a sort of responsibility to be interesting. She always did say she’d get around to that part eventually.
Ah, eventually. Her favorite mental phrase. Chibichunsa took her precious time doing things that didn’t involve chocolate, sometimes not even finishing them at all. Procrastination ran deep in her soul, which her parents lovingly noted with stern looks of disapproval when she stopped doing homework in the third grade. I mean, look at how long it took for her to croak. Silly, lazy girl.
Here’s to you, Chibichunsa. May you be napping peacefully somewhere with a bowl full of matcha chocolate pudding. And you still owe me twenty bucks.”
Dry Amusement 