So Twitter has turned into a giant block party where ever single attendee is standing on a box holding a sign that says, “THE END IS NEAR.” Well, some of them have signs that say, “THE END IS HERE.”
Really, they’ve been calling Twitter dead for the past two weeks. It’s starting to feel a little bit like the last few days of college where you’re convinced each time you see someone it’s gonna be the last time so you do big dramatic goodbyes and then you see that guy the very next day.
It’s a little embarrassing. If Twitter does go, I’ll be sad. It has been my social media of choice for as long as I’ve known social media was a thing. Also, I am old and I cannot figure out Mastodon. Why is it so hard?
Don’t worry, Darling Ones, you’ll always be able to find me right here at www.iwilldare.com. I was here long before Twitter and I’ll be here long after. I’ll be here until the oceans run dry and the sun swallows the earth, or until I die.
Which brings me to a thing that’s been on my mind lately. . . the afterlife.
Do you believe in an afterlife? Heaven? Hell? I don’t know if I do.
For the most part I do not spend a lot of time thinking about what happens to us when we die. I do, however, spend a lot of time thinking of REO Speedwagon.
My ambivalence about the afterlife doesn’t surprise me. I don’t know if I believe in God. I only believe in Ellen Willis.
I recently read a book where a heroin addicted character kept making “jokes” about how she was one bad dose away from seeing Kurt Cobain or Jimi Hendrix or Janis Joplin.
The unfunniness of the jokes didn’t annoy me as much as the thought that the afterlife is just a giant Lollapalooza waiting for you to get there. I’m equally annoyed by people saying someone is gonna greet someone else in heaven. Like when people were all “David Bowie is there to greet Prince at the Pearly Gates.” A lot of people say shit like this all the time when someone famous dies. Full ass grown ups even. I don’t get it.
Around the time I read the book I told my friend Em about why we can’t have lasagna for Christmas Dinner. Why? Because my dad made lasagna one year and I believe Sister #3 threatened to quit the family (foreshadowing, I suppose). My sisters never much cared for my dad’s lasagna because his sauce was too sweet.
“Great,” I said to Em. “Now my dad is gonna smite me for making fun of his red sauce.”
“God,” I said. “I hope he’s not on some fucking cloud in the sky watching me talk on the phone. There better be better things to do in the afterlife.”
Of course, now we make a lot of jokes about dead people floating on clouds eavesdropping and/or judging us. To be honest, if that’s the afterlife I don’t want any of it. I love to eavesdrop as much as the next person, but that just seems kind of boring after awhile.
In an effort to comfort me, a lot of well-meaning people keep saying things like “your dad is always watching over you.” Ick. This is why all my orgasms have been unsatisfying lately.
So, I’m not sure where I’ve landed yet on this whole afterlife thing. While I really love the idea of holding hands with Scott Hutchison while Kenny Rogers sings “Lucille,” I’m leaning more toward just blinking out of existence forever.
Kinda like Twitter, I guess.
You won’t find me in heaven,