Monet and friends.

I don't mean to offend you, but I've something to say.


If I die tomorrow, I hope the right people come to my funeral. I know, I know. This is a very touchy subject for a whole bunch of people right now. I know that a lot of this is because I didn't know any of the people who a lot of you have been feeling the loss of over the last couple months. I know. Maybe I'd feel differently if I had, and I don't feel like I'm adequately expressing what I'm trying to say, but I'm giving it a shot. I don't know. So if you're reading this? Give me the benefit of the doubt.


If I die tomorrow, I hope the right people come to my funeral. I mean that in the most literal way possible. I mean that if I die tomorrow, I know my family will be there, and I hope that the fellowship is there, and Roah, too. I hope August comes and January comes and February comes, even though I'm not sure who cares less, August or January? I hope the "you smell like Addy!" people come. I hope the "you're going to go somewhere with those words of yours" people come. I hope the "I've opened my heart and my kitchen to you" people come. I hope the "come to seminary"s and the "just because 7 over 11 is a over b, doesn't mean a and b are 7 and 11"s and the "sing with me"s and the "Addyson"s and the "goodnight, my darling"s and the "our uterus"s and the "If I ever have a first kiss, it's going to be you"s and the "ttywifhol"s and the "I love you even though you vomit in hotel bathrooms after concerts"s and the "my cute pokemon wishes to make your acquaintance"s people show up. I hope the "I miss your stupid face"s and the "if you only knew how really beautiful you are"s and "It's an such an Abe day you don't even know"s and the "fiend"s and the "you determine your own fate"s show up, and for heavens sake! I really hope Katie comes.


Bluntly speaking, I don't want the people who didn't a.) know me, b.) speak to me, c.) like me, d.) care about me, or e.) all of the above at my funeral.


I guess what I'm getting at is that if I die tomorrow, I don't want to suddenly be appreciated. I'm not saying that everybody needs to appreciate me all of a sudden because I might die very soon (in fact, this isn't about me at all, but I'm an easy person to write about when I'm writing), but really that I'm exhausted of the fact that when people die young, they've suddenly become a big symbol for youth and young love and how much more life they had left to live. I feel like when people die young, everyone seems to lose track of who they actually were. I take that back: Not everyone loses track of who they actually were, but the general populous has a way of getting a little caught up. When you're young, not everyone likes you or knows you or hears you pray or sees you cry or makes you laugh or knows what the inside of your journal looks like. I don't think anyone who didn't should pretend they did after you die.


I guess I don't mean that you can't go to their funeral if you never read their journal, just that when you go to their funeral, you shouldn't pretend that you did.


And, of course, when people die young, there are people who sincerely hurt, and I don't think dying young is something that should, in any way, be taken lightly, but you know what? I'd like my death to be a big deal for the people who actually like me and know me and hear me pray and see me cry and make me laugh and know what the inside of my journal looks like. What the inside of my heart looks like.


I'd like to be taken seriously both in life and in death. Please don't turn me into a symbol is all.


And I'm sorry if you're offended, but all I'm saying is that if the kid across the row in your math class dies tomorrow, don't pretend you loved him if you've never looked him in the eyes and asked how he's doing or complimented his shirt and mentioned how nice his eyes are, and you know about his eyes because you've actually looked at them. I'm not at all saying that you shouldn't be supportive of losses or that you should deal with death in a flippant manner or that you should only go to the funerals of your nearest dearest, of course you can go to the kid across the row in your math class's funeral, but don't go and say he was your best friend (he wasn't) after he dies. If you want to know him, know him. Know him now. NOW.


Or maybe what I'm saying is please care about the people you care about.


Or maybe what I'm saying is please celebrate youth all the time, not just when it's ripped away from you.


Or maybe what I'm saying this that all of those people who I hope come to my funeral? I love you guys. I love you guys a whole lot.


Or maybe what I'm saying is please appreciate artwork before the artist is dead. Yeah. I think that's what I'm saying.


Though the sound overpowers.
All my love,
Addy

Disowned: by Gospels and Poets.

I thought I was well acquainted enough with death to handle that. Or maybe I just thought I was disconnected enough with the death itself.


"Parting is all we know of heaven and all we need of hell." I'm no Emily Dickinson, no Belle of Amherst, and I ain't Sylvia Plath, either, with her Death & Co. I'm following a legacy of death-chasing lady poets, and I can't even handle one funeral.


There was this metaphysical crisis, even: People can get up and talk so much about lives lived, and they're okay because they know about the afterlife, but even if there is an afterlife, the lives were already lived and now they're gone and dead, no matter what comes next.


And I'll tell you what comes next: I do. We do. Me and you. Us. We're next to be waxy and lowered into the ground, and that's sad, and I'm scared, and I hate myself for writing this sentence, because it takes every emotion out of death, especially this death, and I feel bad for doing that, because I truly loved him. I love him. And now he's gone and that's a void that cannot be filled for so many people. We, as individuals, fill more voids than we know, and bandages aren't made for the wounds left when we leave. Even in Sunday School they say that it's okay to cry, even when you know all about Heaven and Jesus, but I'd cry even if they told me it wasn't.


I feel like Avery when she says, "Open up to the book of St. Avery, verse one, and you will find one word: Blasphemy." 


Yes, loves. Open up to the book of St. Addy, verse one, and you will see that it does not exist, because she wasn't exactly a saint by any means, the poor dear; bless her heart.


If it means a lot to you. 
P.S. I'm still mad.
All my love,
Addy