The kind of woman I am

(Blatantly stolen inspired by this post by Chelsea)

Photo by my Ma

I am the type of woman who: does not like turtlenecks because she feels like she’s being choked when she wears them, who thinks today’s bowel movement (or lack thereof) is a perfectly acceptable topic to discuss with her boyfriend, and who appreciates a good bourbon on the rocks.

I’m the woman who works well under pressure at work but not in relationships. The woman who buys peaches in the hopes of becoming healthier but eats the potato chips instead. The woman who will always come to your party if you invite her.

I’m the woman who can’t listen to an entire song, let alone album, without skipping to the next track. The woman who likes the gooiest and brownest of the boiled peanuts and always chooses a flat hot wing over a drumstick. I’m the woman who will get angry if you try to teach her because she wants to learn it herself.

I’m the woman who doesn’t understand those couples that have been together forever but have never farted in front of each other. The woman who thinks people in general just need to lighten the fuck up already. The woman who has to write everything down because SHE WILL FORGET.

I’m the woman who slathers her sandwich with far too much mayonnaise but won’t eat a french fry if it has ever made contact with ketchup, and will pick a burnt hot dog over a steak on most days. The woman who still jams out to California Love (do not judge me that is a BAD ASS SONG). The woman who forgets to pay her Target bill but will always remember your birthday.

I’m the woman who bawls at movies like Charlotte’s Web but remains dry-eyed at funerals. I’m the woman who prefers Marshall to Ted, in spite of the fact that especially because he’s goofier. I’m the woman who refuses to wear pajamas.

I’m the woman who gets annoyed with people who think they own an entire week (sometimes even a MONTH) just because they have a birthday. I’m the woman who prefers dresses to pants. And I’m the type of woman who will cook you dinner with love, serve it to you, then clean up the dishes.

But you’d better fucking rub my shoulders afterward if you know what’s best for you.

Don’t prop me up beside no stinking jukebox

As I was listening to Owner of a Lonely Heart by Yes earlier today, I got to thinking about how I’d like for that song to be played at my funeral.

Well, I guess I wouldn’t like it that much. I mean, I’d be dead. And everything.

Then that got me thinking about funerals.

You know how people always say, “When I die, I don’t want anyone to be sad. I don’t want a funeral, I just want everyone to have a freakin’ PARTY!”

Well, you know what?

When I die?

I WANT PEOPLE TO BE SAD, DAMN IT.

I want my friends and family to bawl their freaking eyes out. You know, the ugly cry. Punctuated with howls and snot bubbles. I’m talking totally devastated, can’t-live-their-lives-any-longer-without-the-sheer-awesomeness-that-was-LRC, suicidal states of mind.

Well, maybe not suicidal.

But would a little moderate to severe depression be too much to ask?

I didn’t think so.

When I die?

YOU BETTER NOT THROW ANY FUCKING PARTIES.

I MEAN IT.

YOU BETTER CRY, GOD DAMN YOU.

MOURN THIS GREAT LOSS, MOTHERFUCKER. SHOW SOME RESPECT FOR THE DEAD AND PUT DOWN THAT MILLER LITE.

Unless you’re drinking your sorrows away.*

Then that’s okay.

Does this make me a bad person?

Obviously not, because there’s gonna be a lot of sad, crying faces at my funeral.

And you don’t cry for someone who’s a bad person.

You just don’t.

*which is what I do every weekend