Moving On – A Shrew’s Rant.

So a couple Fridays ago we visited the chick with the broken leg. She’s fine. Had her surgery and is recuperating now. Now she’s a very pleasant girl and I honestly have no reason to wish ill upon her – and I don’t – but whenever I see her or whenever her medical condition comes up in conversation, all I can think is of how I was previously in her seat, and ergo how close I came to having a broken femur, various lacerations about the body and that pinkish scar tissue on my face (I do have my vanities.)

Now I’ve heard it said - by a couple psychology majors so I’ll take their word for it - that people tend to pull together after experiencing a shared traumatic event. I can dig that. So I can understand that while we were on relatively good terms before the accident, the group really became cohesive after the events of December 22, 2009. The problem is however that I personally think it’s high time we move on from constantly making reference to the bleddy accident already. Seriously.

I am a huge fan of moving on. Dwelling on happenings that have already occurred makes no sense to me. I don’t own a time travel machine, therefore I can’t do anything about what has already happened (and according to these guys I can’t anyway) and therefore I’d rather move on and deal with what’s presently taking place. The ‘shoulda, woulda, coulda’ laments irritate me to no end and are the cause of many, many arguments between Mama Shrew and me.

So there we were, chillin, yappin and playing with a small furry dog, when the driver of the vehicle pulled a flash drive out of his pocket and asked the broken legged chick if she was ready to see ‘the stuff’. Naturally I assumed ‘the stuff’ was either a movie or something pertaining to school. It turned out to be pictures of the wreck and video footage of the area where we ran off the road. I was the only one who made no effort to look at ‘the stuff’. As far as I’m concerned, we’ve already had closure from the first set of pics he showed us. I mean really, how many times are they gonna marvel at the state of the car, or the pole that prevented it from flipping completely over, or any of the myriad factors relating to the accident? And how many freaking pictures does he have of these things?!

I am reminded of the time a couple weeks previously when I was having an MSN conversation with the driver. We were chatting about our academic performances. After about an hour or so I decided that I had had enough and told my usual lie about going to bed early due to fatigue. That is when Mr. Man decided it was the opportune time to draw references between our accident and another that had claimed the lives of the car’s four occupants: they were in a new model Toyota while we in an old model Toyota; their group consisted of 3 guys and a girl, our group was 3 girls and a guy; they were heading to the beach, we were coming back from the beach; their group originally had 5 people, our group originally had 5 people; they were celebrating a birthday, we were celebrating the end of finals. I don’t want to say that he sounded gleeful while checking off the list of similarities because I have been told that I over analyse people’s behaviour (I don’t). I will say though that the bugger sounded smug. Smug as hell. Like it didn’t even occur to him that four sets of parents have to bury their children. Like it didn’t even occur to him that we were almost in that same position. I am always disappointed when I realise how fucking insensitive some people can be.

Suffice it to say I now make myself scarce whenever the topic comes up. Heck it’s not like I don’t have other shit happening in my life that warrant my attention and at the rate they’re going, fifteen years from now they’ll be probably still trading memory accounts of the day.

R.I.P.

Only the good die young. So, by my calculations I should live to see the new millennium. That’s not stopping me, however, from planning for my inevitable expiration date.

Some old white dude (either Woody Allen or Mark Twain) once said: “Death is a dull, dreary affair and my advice to you is that you have nothing whatsoever to do with it.” I think that’s a load of bullpoo. At least in the way it applies to me. My death may be dull and dreary, (I’m actually hoping it is. I don’t think I can handle all that pain and suffering just to die. It seems like such a waste…) but I have absolutely no intention of my funeral following that lead. And to ensure that, I’m going to put it in writing. Or at lest whatever typeface this is. Yep. As decreed by me on this 19th October 2007:-

THE LAST WILL AND TESTAMENT OF SHREW297

What? You thought I would publish an actual last will and testament? Admittedly I did toy with the idea for a while, but no matter how it’s worded, legal jargon isn’t funny and I’m prone to migraines so - tough luck.

First thing first, I want absolutely no one bawling down de place and hogging my coffin. It’s my day damnit and anyone who even thinks of attempting to take the attention off me shall be hit with a spectral bitch slap. Besides, the chances of said bawler knowing me would be between nil and zero – the people who really know me would probably be too relieved to mourn.

Then of course, there’s the disposing of my earthly possessions. They say you can’t take your stuff with you when you’re dead, but to hell with them I say. I want all my assets turned into cash. I want my casket lined with said cash. Then I want to be cremated.

With regards to a funeral ceremony – I don’t want one in a church. In fact I don’t want one at all. The way I figure it, since I’m an unrepentant (and unrepentant I certainly am [for most things at least]), heathen in life, the half-hearted prayers and holy supplications of some old dude will be worth squat to me when I’m dead. I mean what good is praying over a dead body? To me that’s like knocking at the door of an empty house.

My parents can decide what they’re gonna do about disposal of my earthly remains. However, being the pushy bitch I am, I’ll leave them some tips: I read somewhere that rose plants love ashes and if mixed with a little water to form a paste ashes, since they're sterile, can be used as a salve for wounds.

At a point in time, people would ask me what I would do when my parents die. That’s the kind of sick bastards who make up this world. Hey I can deal with my own mortality. It’s pretty straightforward – I’m gonna die, but leave my parents out of it. Have some decorum at least. Besides, anyone who has ever met my parents would agree that the great possibility of them outliving me exists.

The thing is, nowadays you just don’t know when you’ll croak. Back in the day you were at least guaranteed a death after a life of drudgery and children; most likely from smallpox, malaria or plain boredom. Today, the chances of death are exponentially related to the number of feet you accidentally step on.

Personally, I am terrified of dead people. Thanks Mr. Romero! I’ve already told my maman if she died before me, I won’t be jumping on her coffin beseeching her to come back. I love the woman, but I’d want her to stay wherever she winds up. Plus I value what little brain I have…

Last year I found out that my best friend from primary school had died. She had been admitted to the Eric Williams Medical Sciences Complex for flu-like symptoms and died while undertaking care. I was made cognizant of her passing long after the fact, via the obituary column of a daily newspaper and for a fleeting moment I felt guilty for not keeping in touch. I soon realized that even if I had the temperament and was in the habit of calling ‘to touch bases’, it may not have affected the final outcome. I still feel sad though, and I keep my black ass away from Mt. Hope.

All I hope for is that when my time comes, I’ll have a caustic and offensive statement to make before I bid my last adieu; particularly if it’s in front of an audience. In the meantime, I’m trying to come up with a suitable epitaph. After all, if anyone’s gonna taint my memory, it gonna be me.