I don't want to be greeted by the poet who came to our writers group several times, whose only subject is her dead mother and her wonderful childhood. First of all, I don't believe it, although life must be tedious for her if she'd rather be playing jacks. God! Is that what she'd be doing, in my heaven? With others just like her? I'm too cynical for this. Could I choose another door, please?
OK, this door's an obligatory option, the one that's hot to touch, smoke coming off those red rocks. But this is my afterlife and I've already walked on hot coals, so the prospect of hopping for eternity isn't the least appealing. It's better than playing jacks with that sappy poet, though. I'd rather hop than gag. But it's my death I'm imagining, so I can veto anything.
What else don't I want? Honestly, as much as I've been a shoe freak, I wouldn't want a line-up of stiletto heels I had to wear. I'm not saying I wouldn't like to try on on a pair of Jimmy Choos. But, no, not for eternity — think of my screaming arches. Actually, no fancy clothes, either. I've gotten used to comfort. No reason to change that just because I'm dead.
I'm kind of thinking no men. But even I am not that stingy. Of course, men could go to their own heaven. I don't mean segregated. I'd like a place with all sizes, shapes, colors, and yes, genders. But no sex. That would be stupid. In my heaven, at least, no complaining, no jealousy, no looking in the mirror at the latest wrinkle.
So, unless it's completely different from earth, the men in my heaven would have to be gay. No straight men. Straight men tend to lack a sense of humor, and they just can't help looking down their noses at someone or something. Yes, I know — that's what I'm doing right now, but like I said, I'm making this up so I don't have to be nice. I did that the whole first half of my life and I'm done with nice. Pleasant? Occasionally. Bitchy? Often.
But, see, in my heaven nobody gets upset. So your ego can just be outrageous. Wow. I could do anything I want and nobody would care, because it's my heaven. But why am I calling it "heaven"? Not sure about the alternatives. Calling it "my death" sucks.
How about "my eternity"? Surprisingly that sounds a bit ominous. Yikes. To have to be or do anything forever? Too damn long.
Okay, here it is. I want my eternity to be in flux, and each new version will be like reading the latest novel by my favorite author. No, even the author will change periodically. No, I'll be the author. Wait a minute! I think I am.
OK, this door's an obligatory option, the one that's hot to touch, smoke coming off those red rocks. But this is my afterlife and I've already walked on hot coals, so the prospect of hopping for eternity isn't the least appealing. It's better than playing jacks with that sappy poet, though. I'd rather hop than gag. But it's my death I'm imagining, so I can veto anything.
What else don't I want? Honestly, as much as I've been a shoe freak, I wouldn't want a line-up of stiletto heels I had to wear. I'm not saying I wouldn't like to try on on a pair of Jimmy Choos. But, no, not for eternity — think of my screaming arches. Actually, no fancy clothes, either. I've gotten used to comfort. No reason to change that just because I'm dead.
I'm kind of thinking no men. But even I am not that stingy. Of course, men could go to their own heaven. I don't mean segregated. I'd like a place with all sizes, shapes, colors, and yes, genders. But no sex. That would be stupid. In my heaven, at least, no complaining, no jealousy, no looking in the mirror at the latest wrinkle.
So, unless it's completely different from earth, the men in my heaven would have to be gay. No straight men. Straight men tend to lack a sense of humor, and they just can't help looking down their noses at someone or something. Yes, I know — that's what I'm doing right now, but like I said, I'm making this up so I don't have to be nice. I did that the whole first half of my life and I'm done with nice. Pleasant? Occasionally. Bitchy? Often.
But, see, in my heaven nobody gets upset. So your ego can just be outrageous. Wow. I could do anything I want and nobody would care, because it's my heaven. But why am I calling it "heaven"? Not sure about the alternatives. Calling it "my death" sucks.
How about "my eternity"? Surprisingly that sounds a bit ominous. Yikes. To have to be or do anything forever? Too damn long.
Okay, here it is. I want my eternity to be in flux, and each new version will be like reading the latest novel by my favorite author. No, even the author will change periodically. No, I'll be the author. Wait a minute! I think I am.
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