“We call him a tortoise because he taught us.”
“And how do you know that you’re mad?”
“To begin with,” the Cat said, “a dog‘s not mad. You grant that?”
“I suppose so,” said Alice.
“Well then,” the Cat went on, “you see a dog growls when it’s angry, and wags its tail when it’s pleased. Now I growl when I’m pleased, and wag my tail when I’m angry. Therefore I’m mad.”
It was my birthday, which is always a good time to be thinking about death – I love the way burials have gotten green – I think I’ll probably want that. One thing I do know, is I don’t want my kids worrying about what to do with my ashes – I don’t want to be in a coffee can, lost in someone’s garage – dump me in the ocean, or something like that, easy and cheap.
There are so many ways to die – is it better to pay almost 10,000 dollars and die in a sweat lodge in Sedona, die in a crash on the freeway or drop from the sky in a plane with a bunch of strangers?
Is it better to be happy and die
Is it better to be sad and die
Is it better to be angry and die
Is it better to be fat and die
Is it better to be thin and die
Is it better to be stupid and die
Is it better to be smart and die
Is it better to be awake and die
Is it better to be asleep and die
I have decided it is better to be fabulous and die. To be outrageous. To still be alive.
To have turned over every stone, rock, clump of dirt in my life, every talent, glimmer and good piece of my life, every shining thing that I can think of and then I can laugh, or at least smile.
I shall be the Cheshire Cat of death.
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