No one answers your calls. Not even your cousin Iggy who is usually on the lookout for something to do.
“What if I was dying?,” you start to think, “Would it even matter then?”
You’re give some shredded pork and a bottle of IZZE sparkling clementine juice that must have been clearanced out at a local grocery. The cap indicates that it twists off, but after struggling with it for a minute or so, you try prying it open with your lower canines. The lid shoots off from the built-up carbonation inside and lodges nicely inside your trachea. You try to muster up some swallows but to no avail. Your cries for help aren’t even anything but the saliva softly clicking in your mouth. No one is nearby to be of any assistance…
You’d always wanted your ashes ground up and made into ink to later be used by comic book artist Michael Kupperman – you made special preparations with him over Facebook just in case your time came before his retirement. Your relatives saw no need for a viewing, so your corpse went straight to the crematory without embalmment. All wrapped up in several layers of plastic like a postmodern-day mummy, you’re flopped into a temporary cardboard tomb that precedes the 1600 degrees above room temperature.
Then your body squirms.
Go to page 218.
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