I’m beginning to think that funerals don’t make sense because I want to be at my own funeral. I’m sure we all have come upon a shallow worry once in our lives, a curiosity about who—or how many people, to be exact—will come to ours. But I am realizing that the only guest that matters is myself. To live a life of which I will have a few good words to say before sending myself off, one worth having a whole ceremony about. Oh, and I would like to be dressed extravagantly, in bright-colored hats and shoes, and a nice dress I won’t be able to afford. Because if I’m sending myself off, I would like to do it the right away. I would like to be prepared, you know, before I go off dancing in Paradise.