When my uncle died he didn’t want a wake or funeral–he wanted only for my aunt to have him cremated. The day after he died was strange because, as much as I dislike wakes and funerals, there was nothing by which to commemorate him by. No wake is fine by me–a body in a box is not the person I knew. No funeral is fine by me–it seems to be an outpouring of emotion that is tortuous for those of us that prefer to grieve on our own. I’d be all right with funerals if people who didn’t wish to attend were allowed to deal with their loss in their own way, but saying you don’t want to go makes people think you’re a heartless jerk. No, it’s just that I can’t sort out how I feel when I’m thinking, ‘There are far too many loud people here; when can I be alone.’

So when I kick off, I’m donating my organs and the rest of my body to science. A few weeks later, when the pain isn’t so fresh, throw a party where people can talk about how I made them laugh or was infuriating as all get-out. [The best part of funerals, to my mind, is when everyone talks about what a tit so-and-so made of themselves that time in Vegas with the monkey and the nun.] Then everyone watch some Dylan Moran and Bill Bailey stand up DVDs. I’d much rather you be laughing at my funeral than crying. Laughter outlasts tears anyway, because I still find myself chuckling about things that happened years ago, but the people I’ve known who died years ago only evoke a wisp wistfulness.

And for the love of Nora, none of the cliches about how dear and lovely she was. If you didn’t know me in life then I don’t want you speaking at my post-death review party. I don’t believe in an afterlife but if there is one and some half-wit starts yammering about me you’ll know it because my supernatural self will be kicking his corporeal heiny.