(Remember when people used to say “crunk”? I think it was a mix between “chronic” and “drunk”. I prefer the term “drigh”. You do the math.)
Ahh, that takes me back…
Anyways, I’m always a little late with Christmas presents. I never know what to get my family because my mom goes shopping every single day and my step dad never speaks to me. Alessandro just says, “You,” when I ask him what he wants. (Plus or minus some dirty stuff.)
I always know what the fuck I want.
Sometimes my list sounds like the lyrics to a Christmas hip-hop song, but regardless… it’s better to know what kind of liquor someone wants under the tree instead of having to guess. Speaking of which, I finally put up my tree:
(Side note: I’m currently listening to Wham’s “Last Christmas” and dancing with my head because, honestly, how can you not?)
My REAL Christmas list might be unorthodox but here it is…
Alanna’s Christmas List:
1. To be 19 again.
(Because why wouldn’t you?)
2. Really good cocaine.
Don’t judge me. I don’t live in Florida so it’s hard to get and Philadelphians screw you on it. I’d settle for lots of adderall, though.
3. To hang out with my great aunt Lil one last time and share a glass of her world-famous egg nog.
She died a couple years ago, but lived a fantastic life up until the day before she turned 98. The most badass person I’ve ever encountered.
4. To see Led Zeppelin perform live in concert.
(Don’t even get me started on Robert Plant’s unwillingness to sign a fucking contract. WHO TURNS DOWN $800 MILLION DOLLARS?!?!?!??!?!??!?!)
6. To hang out with my best friends.
I miss my dawgs.
But that’s about it. I could deal with more or less, but the essentials are there. Although the Dirty Boyz know what’s good when it comes to Christmas lists…
“Dear Santa I’ve been very good this year can you make them two felonies on my record disappear All I want for Christmas is peace in the ‘hood And an old-school-candy-painted Cadillac Fleetwood”
(I realize that he’s already dead, but he was basically dead for like 30 years before he died. If I had to do a stand-up routine right now, it’d just be bitching about everything/everyone in a raspy old voice and I’d be wearing all black.)
So my uncle died a few months ago, but he was pretty important I guess so he’s being buried in November in Arlington National Cemetery. I personally think it’s a little weird to keep a body around for so long (3 months and counting), but Arlington is like a super exclusive club for dead people and there’s a waiting list and even bouncers (military guys). My uncle’s name was Carlton Sherwood and he was a famous journalist guy and won a Pulitzer Prize. He was really cool and nice to me, even though I only knew him for maybe the last 10 years of his life, but he helped me out when my stupid local newspaper tried to anally rape me in my freshman year of high school (2nd paragraph). (Click that. I wrote the 2nd paragraph myself, bahaha.) UPDATE: They removed my shit except for the quote. But that’s life I suppose. Wikipedia is a dick too.
Anyways, his funeral is gonna be all exclusive and whatever and you actually have to register your name. (I think so that the C.I.A. or something can background-check you, just in case you would try to kamikaze a funeral. Although, it wouldn’t make much sense considering the person is already dead. Now I’m rambling.) But his best friend was Tom Ridge (former governor or Pennsylvania, U.S. Representative, and first Secretary of Homeland Security), so he’ll probably be there. I should have met him once but my mom and step dad didn’t invite me to their wedding… dicks. Also, there is an actual real-life possibility that George W. Bush might be there. By the transitive property, there is an actual real-life possibility that I might die of excitement/awe. He is my hero.
So all this started making me think about my own funeral and death (especially since meeting George W. Bush would pretty much trump everything on my bucket list and I could die happily). I started listing my final wishes to [my boyfriend], and it began to sound like a George Carlin stand-up routine. Slightly less bitter, though. I always thought it would be funny to make a themed funeral entitled “Putting the ‘FUN‘ Back in ‘FUN-ERAL‘”.
NOBODY STEAL THAT. SERIOUSLY. I WILL COME TO YOUR FUNERAL, BRING YOU BACK TO LIFE, AND KILL YOU ALL OVER AGAIN. Then I’d kick your grandchildren in their tiny faces.
I’d put it in my will that people can only talk about awesome shit I did (which will be a lot, possibly), and that they could only play fun upbeat music of my own choosing. Also, I was gonna say no open casket, but then I thought about how funny it would be if I had a “Weekend at Bernie’s” setup where I’m sitting up in a wheelchair wearing sunglasses and maybe a string around my wrist so you could pull on it and I’d wave.
I don’t actually own anything, except my car, so I figure everybody can just have what they want. First come, first serve. But if I ever become a famous writer, I want all my journals to be locked in a golden chest with my favorite drinking cup and one of my giant pill bottles a la Ark of the Covenant. (Don’t quote me on that. My history might be a little off.)
(On a total side note, the other morning I was sleeping and someone kept knocking on my door for what felt like an hour and eventually, I got so frustrated that I got out of bed, started yelling about how if someone hasn’t opened their door after you knock like 50 billion times then they probably don’t want to answer the goddamn door, and after I angrily stomped down the stairs, I opened the door and a state police lady was standing there. I was so shocked, all I could say was ,”Oh.” Turned out she was looking for somebody else, but I felt really bad and tried to apologize but she was all, “Sorry for bothering you,” in a really nice way and left.)
Regardless, we can all take a little life/death advice from George Carlin: