Dirge Diggler

When I look out the window of my boss’s office, which I can see through one of the translucent panes of my cubicle sitting 30 feet away, I see the smoky silhouette of the Santa Monica Mountains bleeding an ocean of headlights they call the 405. Los Angeles is experiencing weather this evening. Local meteorologists are sporting woodies the size of ancient sequoias.

And I’m feeling quite sad.

Perhaps the prospect of a soupy commute through traffic with the most unbearably empty-headed poop pot drivers on planet Earth — or maybe it’s just that I’ve had no less than five apocalyptic dreams in the past seven days, all of them involving an aircraft of some sort — that has pushed me over the delicate line between temperance and obnoxious self-indulgence. Tonight I will have too much to drink and I will paint my fingernails and I will eat chocolate and I will plan my funeral.

When I die I want people to eat bean burritos with a side of homemade salsa and freshly fried tortilla chips. I want people to save the money they would have used to buy flowers and use it instead to tip 25% the next time they have someone serve them a meal. During that one small afternoon I want people to hug their dad and accept their mother in law and laugh when their four-year-old nephew acts like a four year old, for crying out loud.

And I want someone to play Mazzy Star’s “Blue Light” as they put my body in the ground.