I’ve mentioned this to my husband before, but I want it duly noted by all my blog readers, Facebook friends, and what have you, just in case.
I want popcorn at my funeral.
In the throes of grief and the unimaginable void that my death would cause (humor me, here) somebody out there will remember to serve popcorn at my funeral, right? In the last few weeks, my life has been touched indirectly by the deaths of three people (ages 59, 30, and a newborn baby). No one I knew personally, but these three people were the loved ones of a client, a co-worker, and a fellow blogger writer, respectively.
Like they say, tomorrow is promised to no one. I’m not trying to drag you down, here. My philosophy is to try to appreciate my loved ones and my health while I still have them and not take for granted that everything could change in an instant, but at the same time, not dwell on it. Sometimes we feel like we control our destiny, but in truth, we really don’t have much control at all. There’s no use in stressing about it. We just have to do that best we can. Find joy wherever we can and remember that crazy, beautiful, moments in life can come along just as unexpectedly as the tragic ones.
As a wannabe screenwriter, popcorn smells like my dreams. I always said that I love the smell of popcorn so much that I would wear it as perfume if I could. If I ever show up with melted butter dripping from ears, you’ll know I finally went and did it. So I want the smell of popcorn to be associated with me. When I die, I want all my friends and family and popcorn there. I want the smell of buttered popcorn to be so strong that people will wander in off the streets into the funeral home asking “Hey, what’s playing?”
I hope I live long enough to grow old with my family and friends. If I die tomorrow or sixty years from now. Please don’t forget.