The boyfriend and I were having a pleasant enough evening - "America's Next Top Model" was on, so how could we not? Plus, we had "Hoarders" on the DVR so it was like date night. We were chit chatting on the couch at one point when the conversation turned to death.
Specifically, our own.
In all the years we've been together the subject of our own mortality never came up, not even after watching five seasons of "Six Feet Under". But six months in Bako is enough to make anyone start thinking of the afterlife.
I was surprised to find out he wanted to be buried. I had always assumed we'd be cremated. Don't know why I assumed that - probably because that's what we did with the cat. At any rate, his only stipulation was that, despite his family's wishes, he be buried nowhere near his evil stepmother.
Me, personally, I don't really care. Once you're dead you don't really have much say in the matter. If I had my preferences I'd probably be cremated and my ashes spread at sea. But for all I care you could just as well stand me out with the trash. Say a little prayer as the little mechanical arm flips me into the back of the truck.
My only stipulation is that I will not die in Bakersfield.
I don't care what he has to do, if something happens to me and I end up in the hospital on life support with a grim prognosis, he's to steal my body and haul my ass over the county line so I can die in LA.
With dignity.
