Let this be considered my living will…

I’ve decided to start a collection. Of what, you ask? I’m going to collect those little paper holes that–fortunately for me–are a necessary consequence of beaurocratic life.

Now, it’s going to be quite a collection. Inspiring in size, and–if I’m lucky–an awesome mosaic of color. I’m going to keep them in secret places–only my sister will know where–throughout the world, all left with instructions on how she is to attain them should my time come. (And come, it must.)

The nature of this collection should not be surprising in the least. As a child, I quickly bored of stickers and decided instead to collect little shiny pieces of confetti. Oh, I had bears for birthdays, chicks and bunnies for Easter. There were little red X’s and magenta O’s in case I should ever love somebody – hearts and stars in every color. A lovely collection, it was at one time lovingly displayed in rectangular boxes and baby food jars.

Only days ago, G. forced me to acknowledge the uselessness of this collection. Goodwill is now in possession of an astonishing array of confettios.

Regardless, the time is now and we’re moving forward. Paper dots now will fill this void. Many, many paper dots stored in safety deposits all over the world. I wonder the cost of a safety deposit box? No matter, I shall soon find out.

So, in the unfortunate event of my death, I would like whatever parts of my body for which the world has no use to be cremated (my eyes are to be sent to a particularly peculiar ex-boyfriend in accordance with his wishes). I would like my sister to take my collection of paper dots and to fold in my ashes. No mixing here. Folding is a delicate craft only pastry chefs truly appreciate. Perhaps, if she can find one willing, a particularly notable pastry chef will teach her the trade. Pastries might make good refreshments for the funeral, too.

Once my ashes have been sufficiently folded into my beloved paper dot collection (Alex will know when that time comes), you all will gather at a convenient dump. Now, it doesn’t matter which dump – a dump is a dump is a dump. All that matter is that you have a have a good view of this dump – each and every one of you. Play some music, sing along, and watch as a helicopter sets my ashes free in a delicate snow of colored paper dots. But for goodness sakes, you people, bring an umbrella. And then eat some pastries and have some whiskey. I would have wanted it that way.

Now, to tie up a few loose ends. I did at one time collect soda can tabs – to no useful end. If I end up in some vegetative state, please only cut me off when I cease to be amusing. Having obviously already lost any capacity to be clever, I leave it to you all to determine any manner by which I could possibly amuse. Stick carrots in my vacant eye sockets, celery in my ears. Don’t be crude, though, please.

In other news, I’m learning to staple with the precision of a copy machine.