I Will Be As Dramatic in Death As I Was in Life

A funeral plan involving open caskets, rainbow urns, and absolutely no beige.

Readers, the last two months have been an aggressive reminder that life can change in a single phone call, a single knock on the door, or a single ordinary Thursday that suddenly isn’t ordinary anymore.

Which means somebody probably needs to know what I want when my time eventually comes because if the universe decides to cancel my subscription unexpectedly, I refuse to be remembered with a quiet, tasteful funeral featuring beige flowers, soft piano music, and people describing me as “kind and soft-spoken.”

Absolutely not.

That is not the brand I have spent thirty-nine years building.

So let the historical record reflect: I want an open-casket funeral.

Yes. I said what I said.

I want the full production. Photos everywhere. Dramatic video montages. Music. Stories. Chaos. I want people standing around flipping through old journals and discovering there were apparently entire cinematic plotlines happening inside my brain that never made it onto the internet. I want laughter mixed with tears mixed with at least one person whispering, “This is honestly the most Sarah funeral possible.”

And during the funeral, I would like an open BuzzBall bar. In fact, let’s not limit ourselves. Throw in some vodka. Add Jell-O shots. Put out some Fireball. If people are going to spend the day mourning me, they should at least leave with a decent buzz and a few questionable decisions.

And before anyone assumes this is some new emotionally unstable development, absolutely not. I have had this planned since high school. Ok, maybe not the open BuzzBall bar, but still! Somewhere out there exists handwritten evidence from seventeen-year-old me outlining funeral aesthetics like I was directing my own series finale before I could legally drink. Honestly, adulthood has changed very little about me besides making me more tired and slightly more financially responsible.

Speaking of which, yes, I already have a life insurance policy that will cover all of this. Nobody panic. Nobody start a GoFundMe. The chaos has funding.

Now HERE is where it becomes aggressively me. After the funeral, I want to be cremated. Not before. I would like to physically attend my own dramatic farewell before becoming decorative ash, thank you very much.

And once I am cremated, I want to be placed into the gayest rainbow urn you can legally purchase. I do not want subtle elegance. I do not want minimalist neutrals. I want something that looks like Pride Month and poor impulse control joined forces at a craft store. I want people to look at it and immediately understand that whoever is inside spent years emotionally narrating her life while surrounded by gay men, iced coffee, chaos, and questionable decision making.

Then, and this is important, I still want the casket buried in Lake Havasu City.

Empty.

Yes, I know how ridiculous that sounds. No, I do not care.

I want the symbolism. I want the drama. I want future generations confused by the lore.

Meanwhile, my actual cremated remains can sit dramatically inside the rainbow urn while all of you argue over who gets custody of me. Officially, Bestie is supposed to inherit me. Unofficially, I have only one request: do not stick me in a cardboard box in somebody's garage next to Christmas decorations and old tax returns. I have worked far too hard on my personal brand for that ending.

Also, I want one of those electronic headstones because if technology allows me to continue haunting people digitally from beyond the grave, why would I not embrace that opportunity?

Anyway, bookmark this post just in case. Life is short, timelines are unstable, and adulthood apparently consists of surviving one emotionally devastating season finale after another while still answering work emails the next morning like nothing happened.

Thank you for attending this completely unnecessary but apparently important public service announcement.