Make sure I am gone

We are all narcissistic to a certain extent. Yes, a part of me want to be in the limelight just like all those Hollywood types, with the paparazzi dogging and cataloging my every move in words and pictures. But once one is dead, of what use is all that? Yes, I would like to be remembered. But the African’s excuse of using every burial as a day-out to party and eat is something beyond me. When I “go”, please just ensure I am truly gone, then get a wooden casket with no frills and no lacquer if possible, so the worms can get access as quickly as possible. A church service would be nice, but no need to put anybody out. Say immediate family, anyone else who is interested for a grand total of about 50-100 people should be enough. No need to go far, the nearest reasonable ground for such affairs is OK. A headstone would be nice, so that passing generations can stop by and ponder the transiency of man. I do so anytime I see a graveyard. I have been known to read the inscriptions on headstones. To always do the maths to workout how old the person was at death. To consider what the person’s life was like when he was alive. We will all go sooner or later. Death where is thy sting …

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