So the apocalypse didn’t happen?
It seems, then, that I’ve now got a bit more time to continue on with my hobby: drafting my epitaph.
Keep on Truckin’
It keeps me busy. And it’s F-R-E-E!
Here, so far, are the contenders:
- “Enough Already.”
- “This is Absolutely Not Me at My Best.”
- “LOLZ!”
- “Excuse Me. For Living.”
- “Poopsicle = Poo Popsicle.”
- “Probably.”
- NO ROBERT FROST
- “I’m NOT a Feminist. But…”
- “Wait. Wait, wait, wait!”
- “Grateful to Have Lived in the Golden Age of Injectable Soft-Tissue Fillers.”
- “It’s Not You. It’s Me.”
- “Tiger Balm Cures (almost) Everything.”
- “I’m Hungry.”
- “Chemistry was the worst!! Have a nice summer!”
- “Kony 2012.”
- “And I Never Got to Ride That Pony.”
- “Wish You Were Here.”
- “iDied”
The final draft, though!
That.
That will be the tricky bit.
I’m hungry is my favorite. Reminds me there’s leftover pumpkin pie in the fridge.
I love the truck tombstone. In my hometown there’s a cemetary across the street from a McDonald’s and the surname on the tombstone facing the restaurant is “Hamburger.” I shit you not.
The Truck Tombstone is near my house, no lies. It’s probably the best Thing I’ve ever seen – but only, of course, because I have not myself witnessed the grandeur and splendour that is “Hamburger”.
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