Goodbye cruel world: Black death in NYC and my will

So two nights ago I went with a friend from college and a couple of her buds to a showing of “The Virgin Suicides” at a huge park in Brooklyn. A sweet band played before the film, and we went early to picnic (which is now one of my favorite things to do!) We had gone to the grocery right before to pick up some wine, cheese, bread, and fruit. Since we went straight from the grocery to the event, the grapes and strawberries that we were eating hadn’t been washed. I always wash fruit really well, but this particular night I was caught in the bohemian spirit and thought to myself, “God made dirt, the wine will kill the germs, just this once..blah blah blah.” So I ate the unwashed fruit anyway: Exactly 3 strawberries and a handful of grapes.

Yesterday morning, I woke up with swollen glands in my neck. Similar to those that you get when you have a sinus infection, strep throat, etc. I took a holistic approach to the situation and drank more than a liter of vitamin water and more green tea that I care to quantify. Vitamin water is shit, because 12 hours and 20 bucks later, my throat was only worse. My tonsils are bright red, and covered with disgusting things that I don’t want to describe to you. They are so swollen that I can’t eat solid food. I have never had a sore throat like this.

Before I made the direct link between the unwashed fruit and the symptoms that I am having, I considered a range of possibilities. Perhaps my immune system, accustomed to fighting off the microbes that exist in my much cleaner home environment, can’t handle these strange microscopic mutant city critters. I called my mother for reassurance, because that’s just what you do when you’re not feeling 100%. She was no fuckin’ help. When I described my symptoms, she responded with:

“You know, it could really be a number of things. Keep in mind that you are in a port city, and everything comes through port cities. That’s how diseases spread. You know, it was through Venice and Marsailles that the Black Plague began to spread so quickly through Europe, and those are both port cities just like New York.”

Thanks a whole fuckin’ lot, mum. I have a lot to look forward to, after hearing such cheerful optimism. (this is doused in sarcasm).

So, if I do have the plague, I wish my assets to be divided as follows:

To Lou Lou: My most precious possession, my ferret Maximus and all of his possessions (cage, toys, hammock, baseball cap, tunnel, treats and the handmade pottery from which he eats) will be trusted with Lou Lou, under the condition that you will never give him away. Since ferrets are illegal in California, you will have to move elsewhere. It would do you some good. I would offer to pay for costs associated with your relocation, but at the time of my death I will probably have about 200 bucks in my bank account, and that will probably need to be used for ferret kibble. My collection of international costume jewelry, and all of my clothes and shoes, since I think we are the same size. My small arsenal of wine. Get real drunk, but save the French bottles, they might be worth something someday. All of the pictures from our crazy road trip, which are now framed in my 2nd bedroom.

To Stella: The contents of my liquor cabinet, which you should also consume to get real drunk. My blog and facebook account. My stash, the weesil and sophistication (if in fact dogT’s didn’t steal her). My paintings that I made with spray paint and sharpies. My golden key badge, and all sorority garb that I have shamelessly not tossed or given away. My babypool and my toga. My Thai cookbook. My philosophy books. My ferret calendar and the 2 professional photos of Max.

To ol’ Roomie: My laptop and ipod will be trusted with my old den of sin roommate. You probably need another ipod, since my ferret used to steal yours so often. Good luck, Mac savvy. Please clear my hard drive and erase from your memory anything you see in the process. Don’t judge. Also, you can have my Steve Keene painting collection, since you inspired me to start decorating with them.

To BF: My transformers helmet and my band shirts (because they will probably fit you), excluding the Beatles Abby Road shirt, which I am willing to Shofner. You also get my collection of art books, and my herb garden if it is not dead by now.

To Minnie: You are responsible for getting to my condo before my parents and removing from it anything that they don’t need to know about. Check my drawers VERY well. You also get all the boxes filled with my most precious photographs, because they need fuckin’ organized. My whiteboards, calendars and stationary collection. All of my purses, and my big Olsen twin sunglasses. My toybox. My collection of religious paraphernalia. Those sexy lamps that I paid too much for, and my 2 prized shag rugs, under the condition that each time you look at them, you remember where they came from and nod in approval. All of the cheap beer in my laundry room. Anything funny that you find when going through my shit. The Picasso print above my bed, and the Lichtenstein that I haven’t hung up yet. My self-help books (not because you need them, but because you could write one). Photos of Maximus that are in frames in the living room and bathroom. All contents not previously mentioned that my parents don’t want, which could possibly include a sweet Saturn with 3 doors. My signed Lisa Lampanelli DVD.

Having black death really makes you reconsider your life...and how shitty your earthly possessions are! Enjoy!