My funeral

Look upon my works, ye mighty...

I used to think life was just a slow, grinding process of collecting guests for my funeral. In fact, there’s a piece of paper in the pocket of an old shirt, dating back decades. On it, you’ll find detailed instructions for my funeral — notes for the eulogy, seating plans and a little choreography for the song and dance routines.

For a while, I even tried sleeping on my back, coffin-style, to make sure I’d be a good fit. And don’t get me started on the thousands of hours of music I’ve compiled for the world’s longest funeral.

Finally, it would be your turn to etch these words on my gravestone: Insufferable narcissist. Gone too late.

Surprise, surprise. Most of my prospective funeral guests left the scene long ago. I have a handful of friends now, mostly family. If there’s any service at all, hopefully, it will be honest and brief.

It sure would beat the way a lot of junkies bow out of this world.

An addict may think their death will be met by indifference, even a sense of relief. The family silverware is safe, at least. And there won’t be any more concerns about running into him in a downtown alley, offering passersby deep discounts on services we’re all too young to think about.

But the truth is you never outlive love.

Still, despite being soul-deep in addiction, alienated from friends and family, and utterly isolated, I went on making those wretched funeral playlists.

What a grand delusion a dope fiend lives.

I remember that point, when all my friends finally moved on. New jobs. New girlfriends. New lives.

I was alone.

Had my life strategy — the bulk approach — failed? Nah. It was on them. Flaky, fickle humans who couldn’t appreciate me. Fuck them.

Besides, when you find crack, you learn how easy it is to mint new friends. I found one in every bar, park and downtown alley. But the turnover was high — I was forever firing them for reasons of stealing, assaulting and other crimes against my person.

I lost a solid friend when my mother kicked me out. Though she’d later say, it wasn’t for real.

“All you had to do was walk around the corner and come back and I would have taken you in.”

But I left her that day and embarked on a months-long binge. My last binge! During that time, I came up with all kinds of clever designs on ending my life.

I still couldn’t shake the notion that I had failed to collect even one guest for my funeral. What a failure — a born people-pleaser leaving this world without a single person pleased. I mean, when your mother opts out, who’s left to mourn for you?

Of course, there was still love waiting for me at home. Maybe it was hanging by a thread, but all I had to do was pull it — and the whole spool would wrap itself around me.

I finally did just that.

I don’t blame the friends who didn’t stand by me when I was at my worst. Everyone trudges on in life, except for the crack smoker, who remains mired in a single awful moment. I was one of those “slippery” people my doctor told me to steer clear of in recovery.

But I also don’t want them back. I’m learning the art of being friendless. To sit in a room by myself. To spend time with the thoughts in my head — and when I feel a need to skim a few off the top, I’ll express them here.

Besides, if you’re reading this, you’re already my friend. We only have to meet right here on this page — to know each other’s heart.

Thank you for being here. And don’t bother attending my funeral. You’ve got way better things to do.