I don't believe in death, and you don't have to either

Keep the Fun in Funeral

I’m past 80 years old.

Those were the first words to appear.

But now that they’ve appeared I see that they can’t be true.

I’m not 80 years old.

I’m a blog post. This one.

I’ve been conceived of, but not born.

I’ll be born when the publish button gets pressed or however it works on this platform I’m on.

And once I’m born, I will live forever! Or at least until every copy of me disappears from the universe. But hey, that’s just me. I’m a blog post. I don’t believe in death.

But what about you? And what about this “Mike Wolf” or “Michael Wolf” or whatever his name is? Does he believe in death?

Answer: he does not, (or so he types.)

Mike was raised in a family that laughed at death. Yeah, they sent people’s bodies to funeral homes, mortuaries, or whatever. The bodies got cremated. His brother, sister, and some other people have little containers with ashes that are allegedly the “last remains” of Mom and Dad. That’s Dad to the right of the image at the top of the post.

But those aren’t their “last remains.” Because they remain here in me, this blog post, because they remained in the mind of the one who was typing.

I hope I do.

Keeping the fun in funeral

And here’s another blog post that alleges it was written in 2019. It’s about keeping the fun in funeral. That’s where the image at the top of me came from.

That post has links to a memorial issue (another blog post, a more distant relative,) containing the obituary that Mike Wolf’s brother and Mike wrote. The headline for the obituary reads “168 Year Old Bastard Dies.” And if that doesn’t tempt you to follow some links, who knows? Maybe you’re busy. Or stupid. Or you’ve read it already. I don’t know. I’m just a blog post, and I’m not gonna judge.

Back to the point

The point is: I don’t believe in death. And you don’t have to either.

“Of course I have to,” an imaginary reader says.

“Believe not what is true, but what is helpful,” I say, quoting the title of another post.

Death may be true, but it’s sure not helpful.

“It’s not even true,” said TAFKAG.

“Who is TAFKAG,” another imaginary reader says.

“Asks,” corrects another imaginary reader.

Asks, I agree.

I answer: “Who is TAFKAG,” will be the title of the next blog post in this series, I predict.

“What will be the title?” an imaginary reader asks

“No, ‘Who is TAFKAG,’ will be the title. What won’t be the title.”

“What won’t be the title?”

“Right.”

If my prediction is correct, this will link to “Who is TAFKAG,”

“I don’t see anything,” I imagine another reader saying.

“Be patient,” I imagine saying.

edit:

“Holy shit,” I imagine a reader saying, “There’s a link there. And here.”