Wordsmoker

Hello. Just like me, you’re going to die. Everything around you, one day, will be gone. One day you’ll cease to exist. You’ll stop. You’ll stop catching the bus. You’ll stop being in your car. Your home. You’ll be somewhere else. Your death will be final. You will be remembered by others, by animals who sniffed you on the street while you were alive, by guys who wanted to kiss you while you bought coffee remember that guy? No, you don’t. Well, he’ll miss you, that guy. As will the dogs.

It’s a strange existence. Random, us all being here, the paths that lead us here, to this moment, you all out there, reading this. One day the writer of this will be long gone, and this article about epitaphs might live on, floating on a cloud of data harnessed within technology we can only guess at. Or maybe it’ll be deleted by a big tentacled officious bastard with twelve eyes contracted in from a distant planet who specifically objects to posts discussing gravestones. Well, fuck that guy? Is it a guy? It’s hard to tell with all the tentacles. I’m sure I saw about six tits.

Our future alien overlords sifting through the remnants of Wordsmoker held on a server the size of housefly teardrops aside, I got thinking about how I’d like to be remembered. It’s Thursday after all, and that’s a great day for thinking about death. Fridays should be filled with thoughts of numbing yourself through drink and other narcotics until your actual life begins again on Monday morning when the alarm goes off. So – Thursday it is. Death is the subject. Thinking about my death got me to thinking about my gravestone. And thinking about gravestones made me think about Creepshow and the big one that crushed that lady. And then after that about a rabbit. Then after that, I thought about what I’d like to have written on my gravestone. Then I thought about the rabbit again and I went (in my head) GO AWAY RABBIT GET OUT OF MY HEAD and then I came-to, drooling for some reason, and found myself writing this.

I started laughing at the statements I could make

Here Lies VirusWithShoes

Man, He Really Loved Lesbian Porn

so I thought I’d throw it out there, to you.

Your epitaphs, please.

Think about it. Perhaps one day, in a very distant future, a select council of gaseous, sentient creatures will attempt to decipher this stream of strange-looking digital information we long-gone humans once called Wordsmoker. They could spend years and billions of weird alien money on computers the size of planets attempting to simply read your comments below.

In other words “Choose your final statement wisely, aliens might read it”. Okay?

And select councils of gaseous, sentient creatures with limited budgets are notoriously fickle in any dimension.