Baby Steps

I'm trying not to over analyze, let things happen. Try some thought processes I've learned in therapy, and avoid other behaviors that have found me feeling and reacting too intensely in the past.

Yesterday, Joey and I made plans to meet in Chicago next weekend, to stay with friends of mine in their lovely new house, where we'll have our own room. Feeling a little panicky after we talked about it, I told him I needed him to come into this not really expecting anything, that I have to approach things conservatively. I'm not freaking out, I'm just feeling cautious about it. Sex tends to be how I get to know people. It's how I see them vulnerable, it's where I gather and sort the most data, in the spreadsheet that makes up the whole of who they are.

That's another thing we talked about in therapy, that I'm very logical and rational and I want hard information, but yet I am also incredibly emotional. These things, obviously, fight against one another.

Mostly, I don't want to feel pressured. I want to see him, and feel comfortable with him and ease into spending time with him.

It always amuses me how problems in my previous relationship for the other person become something I'm suddenly feeling myself or hyper aware of in the next relationship. I do work really hard to see things from other peoples' perspectives. It's just not always an instantaneous thing. Sometimes, years later, something will happen, and suddenly I'll understand everything that someone was upset with me for or criticized me about. It's like hearing a song you've known all your life and suddenly hearing the lyrics clearly, whereas before, you just mumbled along. Or thought the words were something else entirely.

I observed a lot of these things while with my family while my grandma was dying. Certain things my mom's side of the family does that I had had an inkling of an understanding of, that I now "get."

For instance, arriving at the hospital, to see my grandma, my mom, sister, father and I sat around her bed, talking to her. I wrote about this before, we tried to get her to eat. She did, some. Not enough, but some.

Then, my uncle and aunt came in and we left. When we all were back at the house, one by one, my mother and her brothers voiced some way in which they were special. "We got her to eat!" "Oh, she always takes my calls, no matter how tired she is." "She got really emotional while we were there." It's never said with a tone of celebration, it's all subtle, passive-aggressive one upsmanship. And it's gross. And I see how I do that in my day to day life, trying to prove that MY contribution to a person's life is somehow more valuable, and that ultimately, they are successful or somehow achieved something because of me.

And it's not quite as gross as that, because it does come from a place of caring. Mostly, I think it's part of the abandonment issue schematic; I have to prove why I'm valuable to you so you can't leave me because you'll realize you can't do this without me. With my mom and her brothers, it's a little more sinister.

In my life, it's also something that drives people from me. I see that now. I am not responsible for them, or their success, any more than they would be responsible for mine.

Baby steps, in any case, with Joey. LOL. Joey. Baby. Joey, baby kangaroo. It's bad enough that he's 26, does he need to have a child's name, too!? Oy.

Baby steps. I suppose my biggest fear is this will be something that fizzles fast for me, that it will function as rebound, and I will hurt him. I don't want to keep him at arm's length, I don't want to move too fast, and I don't want to write checks I can't cash. There's a happy medium in there, and I think we're doing pretty well in that frame.

11 Hours, 4 Cats

So much for celibacy.

I went to Louisville. Steve and I had a fun drive down, we are great traveling companions. We arrived at Joey's, I produced the bottle of Malört I'd asked Steve to acquire (a rough-tasting, wormwood based liquor found only in Chi-Town) for Joey, and we immediately did a shot and then sat down to play three rousing games of Scrabble. Joey kicked our asses every time.

Steve and I retired to Joey's room, where I'd take Joey's bed, Steve the futon. I went back downstairs to grab my water, and in one easy movement, went from hugging Joey goodnight, to kissing him.

It was a decent kiss. Mostly, it made me feel safe.

I went to bed.

The next day, the presence of Steve meant Joey and I stole touches on the sly, a squeeze here, a kiss on the forehead there. Pheromone-wise, all of the right things were happening. Again, I felt safe. A glance from across the room made my heart flutter. I felt defensive, I'd gone there with the intention of distance, but he is sweet, earnest and kind. Defenses dissolved. He can't hurt me. When I first reached out to him the next day, it was especially nice, he seemed to breathe more easily knowing the kiss the night before wasn't because we had been drinking.

His Morrissey night was fun. We spent the night at the bar as he DJ'd, and mostly, it inspired a lot of conversation between Steve and I about relationships. The fact that masculinity has been bred out of men almost everywhere in the US. That women like me struggle to find someone dominant enough to handle us on a day to day basis, who understand what it means to be dominant enough to subjugate us sexually in the bedroom without being crass and disrespectful, and yet respect us fully all of the time. Instead, we settle for men who can fuck us, who are assholes, who are misogynists, because the biological need for fulfilling our sexual appetite is stronger than the biological need for fulfilling our need to be taken care of. Ultimately, we can take care of ourselves, even if that's really not what we want. What we can't do is bend ourselves over in front of a window at three in the morning with a storm raging outside and get fucked from behind while rain water soaks us and the floor, and then half way through get picked up like you weigh nothing and thrown on the bed to get fucked some more. So we sacrifice, and we take men home who can do that, who treat us like shit otherwise. Because men who were raised well in this day and age can't navigate their desire to dominate, or that desire has been neutered. Andy was a walking Women's Studies/lame feminist girlfriend disaster. He didn't even look at porn because an ex had convinced him it was a really awful, demeaning thing. Good christ. A little tweaking, and he was able to let a little of his manhood out, but there was always a hesitancy. Not so with dudes who never got that education... I like to think an upcoming generation of men will be inspired by Don Draper of Mad Men to be both gentlemanly and viscerally masculine, but who knows how long the damage of feminist extremes will prevail.

Anyway. In the midst of these conversations with Steve, as I sipped a whiskey water that seemed to be doing nothing for me, Joey would look at me as he DJ'd, I'd be singing along, as he'd be singing along. It clearly made him happy. It made me happy too. Mirroring. Connection.

Morrissey happened to me when I was 17. I'd say I was mostly through that phase by 23. But it was a strong obsession. Morrissey (namely the Smiths), Depeche Mode, and the Cure dominated my life for the bulk of those years, with a two-year dalliance with Japanese rock like Luna Sea and L'arc~en~Ciel in there in the middle. Revisiting this with someone so deeply into it is charmingly nostalgic. His interest, while an obsession, is only one color of his musical palette, thankfully. He appreciates music at the same level as I do. We have already had some really great conversations about music, and it's something that's very important to me. A lot of people I know are into music. Really into music. But there's a special level where it enters definite nerdery, a field I've been playing on my whole life. Encyclopedic knowledge, and an expansive openness to new things. I don't get to spend much time with people like that, like me, except peripherally. Andy was very into music, but also closed-minded and judgmental about what makes something good. Chris loves music passionately, but his interest is more sponge-like; he invests himself in music that comes to him, is around him. He doesn't seek things out, he doesn't go to shows. Joey is like me. He is invested in the scene in Louisville, and writes a popular Louisville music blog with some friends.

After Moz night wrapped up, we returned to Joey's. Attempted another game of Scrabble, but I was beat. I went upstairs and Joey was close behind, to grab his pjs and brush his teeth. Steve stayed downstairs, and I knew he had all his things with him. We'd talked earlier in the evening that it was possible I might like to sleep next to Joey. I figured Steve was smart enough to figure this would happen without further discussion.

Joey and I kissed, as he held his shorts in hand, clearly prepared to head downstairs, assuming nothing. I fidgeted on the bed, looking at my lap, unable to look him in the eye. He continued to lean in to kiss me. Eventually, I looked up at him, and I said that it would be nice to sleep next to him, but I didn't think I could handle any more than that. He assured me that arrangement was more than acceptable, and we each went to brush our teeth.

After kissing a while, he was touching my back, and it tickled. I asked him to touch harder. Instead, he squeezed me really hard, seemingly everywhere at once, with his entire body, and I felt myself sigh into it, I allowed myself to just be there with him, and I felt the fear bubble burst.

And thus, more than kissing began.

I am trying to figure out where I stand here. Being with him helped to snip the last tethers of strong emotion I was tending the knots on for Chris. I was able to unblock Chris on fb yesterday, and don't have any urge to go spelunking his page as a result (I haven't looked at it at all, in fact). It feels like a big step. Seeing a new photo on Lindsay's Instagram of him doesn't make my heart shoot up into my throat. Today, I received the package of Kickstarter prezzies from Chris's comic project and didn't dissolve into a puddle of tears, as I know I would have a week ago. Instead, I just felt an ease, and pride. He is so talented, and I want him to succeed. He is his own worst enemy on that front, and his business sense is myopic at best, so I fear for him. But, for the first time, I don't feel like any of that is something I should have my hands in. Those tethers are gone. I am sure if I saw him, if he knocked on my door right now, it would be a terrifically conflicting battery of emotions, and I feel pretty sure love would be amongst them, but there's a joy in knowing that isn't going to happen.

I can just focus on Joey now. There's nothing I can do about Chris.

So, another chapter in my love life begins, with another long-distance entanglement. My therapist is kind of excited, the pleasant weirdo. He likes that Joey is a kind, easy-going guy, because he feels like I can focus on him without getting into intense emotion territory and can use some of the lessons and information I've gathered since we started therapy in January to make this involvement function better than others have in the past. But, there are still the giant issues of distance in play, albeit marginally less insane, as Louisville IS a day trip away, not two, by bus or car, which is about 4,000% less a logistical and financial nightmare. I can easily bus to Chicago, spend the night with friends, and then bus the rest of the way without putting myself out in any way. Plus, his sister is in Chicago, and she goes there often, so we can get to spend more time together and bus down too.

Joey, too, is badly allergic to cats. So he can't come stay with me. 11 hours. 4 cats.

I get now something that both Chris and Thor struggled with. I looked at our relationships and our distance as something we simply had to accept, and treat accordingly, but they complained about not being able to get to know me face to face. To go on proper dates. That to see one another basically meant living with one another for a week at a time, when we weren't ready for that level of interaction. I honestly didn't think much of it. I tend to accept circumstances that cannot be changed. Except now. Now I'm pissed and I'm frustrated that this lovely person is 11 hours away from me (11 hours driving like a bat out of hell, that is), that I can't bike over to his place and go to a bbq with him after we go out to his favorite coffee shop and then head back to my place for the night. That it's an all or nothing contact situation.

At the very least, I feel rational and in control here. I think because when I met Joey, I was still pretty thick in heartache and thus didn't entertain the baby crush I immediately had, and we had a month and a half to let a connection brew long distance, and become friends, that there's nothing to make me get super heady about this. I worry this also means I may not develop stronger feelings for him, but something tells me this is a curious new frontier for me. My involvements grow healthier with each new one, and the intensity I normally feel is not particularly healthy.

I'll take it as it comes, I guess. And I guess this means planning another trip to Louisville soon.

Ripping through a dozen angry bears...

I done fed myself too much caffeine today. This causes a large amount of general anxiety, coupled with obsessive thinking and effectively, a bit of depression.

I did it to myself, things were just peachy until mid-way through the third cup of coffee, here at home, while I idly watched the 21 Jump Street revamp (pretty funny, though I expect I missed a few things, having never watched the series, and appreciated the Depp Deluise cameos, both of which are still very sexy man folks), did some internet business, and tried to drum up some work. None was particularly effective, so my idleness became quite a sedentary state, as I blinked blandly at the pile of dishes that need washing and generally became twitchy and over-anxious while giving into obsessive, not in the least bit fruitful thinking.

Namely, that Chris's birthday is in two days and I wish it made sense to do something for him, because fuck I'm awesome at birthday shit for boyfriend-types, that I don't ever open the front door to my place without hoping he's standing on the curb, fresh out of a taxi, all Troy Dyer in Reality Bites-like, or that the Sandra Bullock as Mary Magdalene black velvet painting he said he'd still paint for me when we broke up (I didn't ask, he said outright he'd do it, that he wanted to, even if its arrival was upsetting for me, which it couldn't ever not be if we're not together, but I still want it, very much. Tom Cruise as Jesus Christ needs his obvious [to me] companion) would be there on the porch, delivered by the USPS.

Or, better yet, that he'd be standing on the porch with the painting in hand, a shy, maybe a little scared, grin on his face.

And I'd welcome him in, happily, and we'd cry as we are wont to do, being emotional retards, and we'd have some serious talks, or maybe we wouldn't at all, maybe we'd just break down and kiss and love each other, and that would be it, an admission of us both being ridiculous, difficult, impossible people, but an understanding that we are worth working out. Because I still believe that we are.

But every time I open the door, there's nothing there, save some grocery fliers, or mail for my shitty former roommate from the state about her child support, or packages, abundant packages, for the people upstairs, who are nubile, pretty artists in their early 20s, from all over the world.

So I'm trying to balance out the over-caffeination with a little whiskey. I'm still twitchy, and writing this has made me weep a little, but the whiskey is effective and I'm feeling my mood elevate a little. Such a delicate balance, these drugs! Too little caffeine, and I feel cobwebbed and sad and achy. Too much and I'm hyper-neurotic and can get pretty depressed. Too much alcohol leads to a whole host of issues. And too little of it, well, I am a social butterfly, I need my social lubrication.

And, as soon as I've washed some more dishes (two sinkfuls in the last hour, about two more to go), and put myself together a bit, I'll head out on my bike. Maybe aimlessly, maybe with friends and a destination in mind. The night is young.

It's been almost decided that I am headed to Chicago by bus and then Louisville by car on Monday. I bought a very cheap bus ticket today, so if the plan falls through, I am only out $34. My friend's brother is hosting a Morrissey night in Louisville, he is opening his house to me and my friend from Chicago, whether or not his sister is able to make it with us. I look forward to the Morrissey, to seeing him again, and to testing whether I can be responsible with my heart, my body, and my general place in life by not acting on our flirtations. I have never been the most emotionally stable person, I've more or less been in a "bad place" for as long as I can remember, with only infrequent peaks in emotional stability, or feelings of being on solid ground. Travel always helps, and is actually fairly imperative. But that doesn't mean I need to act on a crush. I want better for myself, and for the people who are to interact with me now and in the future.

And the simple fact is, I'd rip through a dozen angry bears to get to/save/be near Chris again.

The stuff that is happening right now is stuff that's pretty good

Ever since I had the stomach flu three weeks ago, things have been on an uptick. There's just something about sitting on the can, voiding both one's bowels uncontrollably while simultaneously vomiting into the bathroom trash receptacle to really, I don't know, purge all the badness from one's person, both literally and metaphorically.

There was even a moment we could call religious, where, realizing I had but a moment to get back to bed before I was going to pass the fuck out, I wound up flopping, just barely, onto said bed, only to wake up I don't know how much later, face down in my blankets, legs half off and nearly touching the floor. Even in my sickly torpor, I laughed at the situation I was in, and crawled up to my pillows to fall back asleep. Three hours of this, about every twenty minutes to half an hour, and the worst of it was over, but it would be four days before applesauce, saltines, Sprite and bananas weren't 90% of my diet. I tried ravioli on the third day, it was a mistake.

I feel good. The weather seems to be, as of yesterday, in the mood to be more of a summery spring than a wintery one, and as can be expected, it's done wonders for the moods of everyone. I'm wearing a flimsy tank top today. I have a cardigan in my bag, but I don't need it. Praise Jesus.

I am continuing therapy, even though I am now feeling stable and content and like I can tackle shit without the bolstering effect of someone impartial to talk to. Mostly because, despite this stability, the problems are still there, in theory; I need to learn how to be better in a relationship. Less anxious. Less tense. Less nitpicky. And I need to learn that keeping some things to myself, in terms of the intensity of my feelings, can be kept to myself, for weeks, even months at a time, without it being "lying." This is the point we covered last session, and when my therapist laughed at me, I laughed too, and quite deflated in my chair. It's the simple realizations that cover the most ground, and it kind of floors me every time. Not being forthcoming about EVERY thing that I think doesn't mean I'm lying to someone. Bah.

This came about after I told my therapist about a friend who went on a date with a fellow she'd liked form afar for some time. Their date went very well, and basically from that moment, she was like, "He's the one, I'm done," but she didn't say that, for, I think, FOUR MONTHS. And now they're married. Had she said it in the first week, or first month, like I do, he probably would have freaked and ran. But she didn't. And she wasn't lying to him, she was smart, she kept it to herself, let him catch up to her. Why can't I do that? It's one of the many little things I do to sabotage my relationships. Every time. We came up with the obvious metaphor of letting things stew for the other person, letting them feel out the full flavors of me and the relationship before I dump the intensity of my feelings on them. DUH, really, Sarah. And in the meantime, I might find that my feelings are infatuation, or that I don't really like them all that much. But the way I do things, I dump out all that's in my head and expect the other party to be comfortable with that, and also put myself in a position to be overwhelmingly attached to them because of the word LOVE. But they never catch up, not to the level that I found from the beginning. Other women are smart. I need to be like them. A little mystery, girl.

In other news, celibacy and emotional distance are still the name of the game. I had a very handsome, charming, 6'5" college football coach hitting on me in a very adult and gentlemanly way at a literary event last week, but while the first meeting was purely charming, and mildly piqued my interest, when I ran into him at another lit event this weekend, it was determined that he has crazy eyes. Also, dad jeans. Dad jeans, unfortunately, are unforgivable at this stage in my life. I am too old to be teaching a man how to dress. Which is good, because the night I'd met him, and gave him my number after he asked, I woke up at 4 a.m. in a full blown panic and could only get to sleep after I convinced myself he'd never call. He did text the next day to say, adult and gentleman like, that it was a pleasure to have met me. And when I ran into him Saturday, something was off. His charm was now plasticine, his eyes a bit shifty. None of us who had borne witness to the charm four days prior could pinpoint what had changed, but the change was there, nonetheless. I am relieved. I am not ready to date, or even think about it, as is evidenced by my 4 a.m. wakeup in fucking heart pounding fear mode.

But I do have a pleasant, harmless crush that helps me pass the time. We play Words With Friends games and chat about Morrissey. He is too young, too slight of build, and too much the brother of a friend (and too much, again, living in another city), but it is so safe, I can use it as an experiment, and have been. Not a whisper of seal has been broken on the crush. Our talk is very vaguely flirtatious, but no admission of any attraction or interest has been broached in the least. I've never done this before. It's been a month, and I am proud. In fact, I sincerely doubt, when I see him again (given he lives in the city I'd like to relocate to in the fall), that I'll allow it to become anything else. Too young, too slight, too brother. I see those red flags, y'all, and they are not worth the trouble it would be to put another notch in my bedpost. Land sakes, might I wind up with a friend that I find attractive, who finds me attractive, that I never engage in physical activity with?

The mind reels.

Here Lies My Will

My official unofficial last will and testament:

I, of occasional Swiss cheese mind state swear that the words herein are totally what I want you to do with my stuff and my person when I die or become completely infirm (if the latter, let it be known that I am pissed you didn’t take me out back and shoot me [in other words, pull the plug]). The date today is May 3rd, 2013.

I would like, assuming we are still close at the time of my death, to have my sister Rachael Kuiken, and friends Chad Lanning, Dan Kane, Steph Grant-Kennedy, Robert and Amber Arwine, and Hilary Falk in charge of executing my will and arranging my funeral services and burial. They know, and understand me best, and I can’t imagine any of them fighting or doing something ridiculous to make my wishes a floppy failure.

My cats are my primary concern. I wish that they go to either Daniel Howard Kane or Jonathan Lloyd Ford, who are two people with lives stable enough for Gaia (aka Gaia the Bee, G-Baby), Odin (aka Odin Marie [when he’s being a ponce], Odin the Terrorcat, Odie), Igor (aka Eegs) and Henry to join them, and who possess the right temperament to become their owners/love them as much as I do. While I would prefer all four stay together because Gaia needs the companionship even if it seems like she hates them, and because Odin loves being daddy to Igor and Henry, I chose two people in the event that this is not possible. If it is not possible to keep them together, please keep at least Gaia and Odin together and Igor and Henry together. Gaia is at this time approximately 15 years old (no precise idea of her age, as she was a stray), Odin is nearly 5 (he was born September 22nd, 2008), and Igor and Henry are nearly 3 (likely born in late September 2010). All of them are healthy, though none of them have had a full battery of shots as I see no reason to do so since they are indoor cats. Igor and Henry do have kitty herpes, but as long as they stay indoors and are loved and cared for, they shouldn’t have any problems with it save some occasional sneezing and giant snot rockets. If they do get gunky eyes, some simple eye wash (available at vet supply stores) will take care of it in a day or two. Gaia occasionally gets a gunk eye as well.

Otherwise, there is my “stuff”. My lamps and dead things and all the tchotchkes on my dresser shrine are probably most important to me (yes, even the rusty metal washers; I pick those up on every trip I take. It’s what poor people call a souvenir.), and I’d like for them to be distributed amongst friends and family who want them (many dead things were gifts, so please allow those who gave them to me to claim them first). It might be fun to put all the washers and little things in a basket for people to take one of at the funeral service, if they’d like. My sister Rachael should have my paternal grandmother Lois’s Tiffany style lamp, the three milk glass lamps from the Ely cabin, and my solid silver bracelet (the bracelet was purchased at the Heard museum in Phoenix, AZ in October 2005 for $198). I would like to keep these things in the family. Robert Stanford Arwine III should have my Nashville guitar. Fur and leather coats to Hilary Falk, and she should get first dibs on any clothes. 

If I have any money at the time of my death, after use to pay for burial and pay off my debts, please give an amount reasonable for the lifetime care of my cats to Dan and/or Jonathan, and any remaining amount should be distributed to pay off debts of my immediate family (parents and sister), and then equally the debts of anyone friend or family mentioned in this will. If there is still a sizable amount of money after that, then I would like the cabin outside of Ely on White Iron Lake that was in my family for several decades to be reacquired, and put into some kind of legalesey trust that ensures the cabin stays in the family and is cared for financially with my money in perpetuity, and that it be a place of refuge for my friends and family alike. If there is any amount remaining after that, I would like for $20 bills to be passed out at random to people on Frenchmen Street in New Orleans, and somewhere old and pretty in Memphis, Louisville, Minneapolis, and Ely until it is gone. If I own any property, or any kind of sweet car, I’d like it to go to Chad Lanning.

How I’d like to be buried and wishes for my funeral:

If I haven’t expressed a specific cemetery by the time of my passing, I would prefer to be buried somewhere in the state of either Kentucky or Tennessee in a small country cemetery, on a hill or in the woods. I want there to be plenty of trees. I want this because my heart belongs to the South, and both of those states are central enough for everyone I love (who are scattered all over the country) to be able to come to the burial/later visit my grave/make yearly pilgrimages to pour Powers whiskey on it, if they so choose. If there is an afterlife and you love me, please consider that being buried somewhere with a harsh winter is just about the only thing that kind of freaks me out about death/being bound to the place one is buried. 

Ideally, I would prefer to not be embalmed, or preserved in any way. I understand that this means burial very soon after my death, and that puts a strain on whomever plans the funeral, particularly if I’m to be buried out of state, but returning to the earth in as natural a state as possible is incredibly important to me. I would like to be buried in a box made of untreated wood, in the traditional old-timey coffin shape. If he would be interested in doing so, it would mean a lot to me to have Thor Johann Carlson of New Orleans make this box for me. (I think it would be pretty rad for y’all to rent a bus and drive down together. Just put my coffin in a trailer behind it, and maybe some tin cans on strings to clatter down the road.)

I do not want any kind of religious officiant to speak at my funeral, nor any conversation about the afterlife in any religious way. I am not an atheist, and I do believe in a higher power, but I am not afraid of death and I don’t believe it is any of our business as the living to make guesses on what happens to us after death. We can’t know. I don’t find it comforting to hear it at other funerals, and I don’t want it to be a part of mine. I would like for friends and family to speak about their memories of me, for people to read letters I’d written, etc. John Morson may or may not have a stash of Sarah quotes at the ready. If someone wants to read something by someone else, let it be something that Leonard Cohen, Charles Bukowski or Nick Cave wrote. As for flowers, encourage people to send wild-type flowers, Gerbera daisies, ferns or ivy plants. Trees (oak, or willow, preferably) planted in my name would also be wonderful. Please bury me at dusk, during magic hour. It’d be neat if y’all wore black, with big hats and veils on the ladies and felt hats on the men, cuz I like fancy coordination like that. Feel free to smile and laugh often, despite this color. And it should be strongly encouraged that people bring their dogs, if they’d like to.

I know this will make my mama cringe, but I would very much like for someone to sing the song Jack on Fire by the Gun Club at my funeral service, or graveside; my band, The Deceitful Lapwings, covered it, but it would be wonderful to have someone reinterpret it. Possible persons to sing/perform it would be Chad Michael Lanning, Hans Lang Olson and Shannah Marie Anderson, with any of my musician friends who’d like to tackle it. It’s a dark and nasty song, but it’s chock full of things that I love and make me laugh, in its macabre morbidity. Shots of Powers whiskey should be distributed as it is being performed, and should take said shot at the line, “And I will fuck you until you die, bury you and kiss the town goodbye. It will be unhappy, it will be sad, but it will be understood that I am bad!” And something with dimes, my favorite coin. Maybe throw dimes into the casket before it’s buried.

An open bar after my funeral service/burial is also important, as well as a live band, several of my friends’ bands, in particular. If someone can make it happen, I also have fantasies of Ryan Adams playing. Maybe by the time I die, he’ll be hard up for cash (or he’ll remember the Tweet he just favorited that states I’d like him to play at my funeral). Jack White would be amazing too, but I suspect even less likely. Choose some small, dark, comfortable bar in KY or TN that can be rented out. You’ll know it by its wood paneling and taxidermy, and it will probably be the possessive name of some man.

Drinks I love that should be notably served, and could be given jaunty/archaic language/dead things Sarah-like nicknames in my honor: Powers whiskey (I take mine tall, heavily watered, no ice), vodka soda with lime, sauvignon blanc, malbec, craft beer porters and stouts, Corona, PBR (in bottle only), and a mango martini that is made with mango puree, black pepper vodka and other stuff; find someone who used to work at Joe’s Garage to get the recipe. Drew White would know. Let there be spicy tuna roll sushi, sandwiches Croque Monsieur and Cuban, plenty of healthy crudité with hummuses and fresh fruits (except for cantaloupe, ew), a nice mixed greens salad with tomatoes and red onion with my vinaigrette (olive oil, red wine vinegar, dill, minced garlic, yellow mustard, honey, salt and pepper) and a taco bar with both trashy gringo taco fixin’s and traditional fresh corn tortilla, barbacoa, white onion, pico de gallo, cilantro and lime (see: TACO CAT!!!). Desserts should be key lime pie, butterscotch budino (alá the 112 Eatery), and angel food with fresh strawberries and whipped cream. My friend Scott Hurlbut would be a fine choice to put together this menu, and it would honor me greatly to have him do so.

And I think that’s about it. 

Sincerely,

Sarah Michelle Moeding

May the third, the year two thousand and thirteen