(no subject)
In the wake of the recent death of Terry Schiavo, with the coinciding stupid-assed hysteria and wringing of hands over the right to die, I have decided to set forth here, in this very journal, my very own wishes for the disposition of myself should I ever fall into a persistent vegetative state in which I drool and roll my eyes and shit myself:
Please prop me up in a brightly-painted wheelchair and paint me up to look like a clown and send me off with the circus. It is comforting now to consider the smiles I will bring to childrens' little faces as my gaily-painted head lolls to one side in a cloudy stupor whilst my food-tube replenishes my system with all the vital nutrients needed to keep my clownish living corpse operative.
Thank you, and God Bless.
J.
Please prop me up in a brightly-painted wheelchair and paint me up to look like a clown and send me off with the circus. It is comforting now to consider the smiles I will bring to childrens' little faces as my gaily-painted head lolls to one side in a cloudy stupor whilst my food-tube replenishes my system with all the vital nutrients needed to keep my clownish living corpse operative.
Thank you, and God Bless.
J.