Laughing to prevent myself from crying

Death isn’t a tragedy for the person who dies.

What do they care? They’re already gone. It’s lights out. They’re not even around when people mourn them, so what’s all the fuss about?

Seinfeld summarized it best:

Dying is going to be fantastic, think of all things you’re done with.

Seems to me, that the cruelest punishment is not the end of our own lives, but the death of those we love while we’re still alive. Now that’s terrifying.

When my mind goes to that morbid place and starts having one of those intrusive death fantasies that makes me sad and scared, it’s never about my precious little legacy. Or whether or not my time on this earth really mattered. That’s all just people pleasing in the afterlife, and it sounds exhausting.

What destroys me is the nauseating fantasy about how awful life would be if my wife, family and friends were gone, but I was still here. Makes me sick to my stomach.

Have you ever gone down that road before? Imagining how you would react to the news, how you would grieve, what you would say at the funeral, how you would find a way to live with their absence?

Absolutely the worst. When these thoughts come crashing in unannounced, I try not to judge them or beat myself up.

But it’s hard. Sometimes the only coping mechanism for the specter of death of those closest to me is humor. Laughing to prevent myself from crying.

Here, allow me to share an example from one of the sick movies inside my head.

There are multiple nonprofit organizations that give life changing wishes for people with critical illnesses. But some terminally sick patients aren’t interested in the same old, lame old memories. Fancy dinners, meeting their personal heroes, traveling to tropical destinations, all of that sounds lovely. But what if all your loved ones really want on their death bed are good old fashioned hookers and cocaine?

Deuces, my new service business, is for you.

Our innovative charity program delivered illegal drugs and prostitutes to people at death’s door. Through the help of our strategic partnerships with inner city gangs, local brothels and strip clubs, our gift givers will literally show up in your family member’s hospital room with sex workers and narcotics.

Chemotherapy treatments making dad lose all his hair? Don’t worry, our whores will fuck anybody.

Bone marrow transplant got grandpa’s energy level down? Here, let him snort a few lines of this uncut blow, and he’ll be removing his own catheter before visiting hours are over.

Look, your loved ones need comfort and closure at the end of their lives. With the support of our nationwide network of volunteers, providers, hospitals and halfway houses, our nonprofit has delivered illegal drugs and prostitutes to thirty thousand patients across the nation.

Donate today. Bring families together and unite entire communities. Give your loved ones renewed strength to blow their load and their nasal septum before the grim reaper claims their soul for eternal damnation.

Deuces, because when life deals you a bad hand, you can snort and fuck your way out the door.

If that fake commercial didn’t at least put a smile on your face, you might already be dead. 

LET ME ASK YA THIS…
How do you cope with the fact that dying is not as difficult as living?