Everyone I know is a weirdo. -Greg
My roommate has told me on several occasions that I’d better speak at his funeral. I guess he fancies me the eloquent sort. He swears that his life has reached its twilight and that he needs a DUI or two to begin his descent into narcotics addiction or alcoholism or both. Both would be pretty glorious because then he could wake up in the morning to a tall glass of whiskey with a few grams of that blowcaine mixed in, just like Gregg Allman. Was that Gregg Allman? Maybe it was Stevie Ray Vaughan–It’s not important, Tim doesn’t like classic rock so he wouldn’t ever do it.
In any case, the way Mark (which is what I’ll call him) sees it, he will be dead soon and wants me to say my piece during his funeral. But this is what I’m saying: what if I can’t make it to his funeral? There might be shit to do. I might have homework due the next day, and, worse, it would be very selfish of him to die during finals. And forget it if I have a hot date—if I have a hot date and then an exam a couple of days later then we’re gonna have to worry about me even showing up to the wake. Especially if he’s going to be wearing his septum piercing because I hate that shit and it’s gonna look even worse on his corpse.
Mark, if you are reading this: make arrangements to have your septum piercing out before you die, because I can’t be expected to wear nice clothes and to look at that garbage. You might have to cover up the Of Montreal tattoo as well. Also, will your coffin walls be covered in boogers like your bedroom walls at home?
This is my problem, then. It’s presumptuous to ask me to speak at a funeral if my attendance thereof isn’t a done deal in itself. What would I even say?
“Mark didn’t masturbate, friends. Instead, he passionately humped his bed like a half-asleep thirteen year old forcing a wet dream—true story. This is probably the reason why his room smelled.
“Also, despite the fact that he was Korean, he was incredibly preoccupied with race and would inevitably mock you if you weren’t white or black. You see, he was used to white people and intimidated by black people. Mark, out of what he thought to be sheer selflessness, would even slide into what he considered an African-American accent whenever he ordered from the West Philly McDonalds. To witness such a thing was unspeakably uncomfortable.
“But, lo! Mark was unique, and uniqueness makes the world go ‘round.”
I suppose it would sound something like that. It might suck, but only because he sucks. Oh, I also forgot to mention: Mark—if you’re going to die before the lease is up then you need to find a replacement roommate. Otherwise I’ll tell people about those two DVDs buried in your stack of CD-Rs. You know, those movies that would be funny if you only had one— but, since you have two, it’s just plain unsettling?