I have always been fascinated with death. I can’t pin-point why, especially “Why can’t I be like the rest of the girls and be normal for once and fantasise about my wedding?”.

Once, a friend asked me how I’d like my wedding to be like, I just couldn’t answer for the life of me. For a full five minutes, he stared at me, expecting an answer. I relented. But not enough an answer for him, it seemed.

I told him that it’s enough that we love each other and the wedding is most likely just to appease the elders kinda crap. But having a memorable one would be nice, but I really don’t have anything planned per se.

He was suitably perturbed that he exclaimed, spits and all, in my face,”Every girl has a dream wedding planned out since they were 7, at least! How could you not?! ARE YOU SERIOUS??!”

Enough to say, I was not only tongue-tied, but also kinda embarrassed from his outburst.

“Urm… I did once told my sis while we’re watching a period costume drama that I’d like a red Chinky wedding full of people and maybe a real sedan.”

He sniffed at me, “That is NOT a plan. How could you not think of it by now??”

“Uh… but isn’t it more important to worry WHO I marry than the actual wedding details?”

“I’m not even Asian and pretty chauvinistic, AND I think about my wedding sometimes and plan it. (details of the wedding omitted) I’m shocked that a girl like you don’t plan anything for yours.”

I maintained that the wedding details can always be dealt when I actually have someone to marry. Plus, it shouldn’t be that big a deal as long as I don’t get forced to marry someone just because of some stupid reason like “It’s time to settle down” or “Oops. I got you preggers”.

But, it still got me thinking, “Why the hell am I so weird??! Am I THAT weird??”

Definitely death and taxes and inflation are the more certain things in life than marriage.

Yea, why am I so weird to have planned how I wanna be burried (cremated after major organs are harvested for needy peeps and the ashes in a bigass clean mayo jar–with a squeeze of lemon) and most details thought out during sleepless nights and thoughtless lull in alone time. The lemon juice and zest bit freaked my ma, of course, as I kept reminding her whenever the issue came about that I’m serious about having my organs donated (I even showed her my donor card yonks ago to prove my point) and being cremated incasetion that I die before her since I have no partner to entrust this to.

And I wanted everyone attending the funeral to not cry. Not too much, at least. It would be better to have everyone tell the rest what stupid/funny thing I said to them that they remembered or how hilarious it was when I drew constipated turtles on StupidGweilo’s arms during lectures/kicked that idiot who insisted on biting my ass in public for no reason other than him being an arse/pecked a cute guy in a club on the cheek, but never gave him my number/talked loudly in the bus about how it’s possible to break a dick and an English woman joining in the convo/how that hot guy had leg cramps at a crucial bit of horizontal tango/any random moment.

I don’t know. Perhaps it’s the gut feeling I had when I was little that I won’t last long on Earth. It used to be the general idea that I won’t live past 21, but I did.

I think about it all the time. More than sex. Serious.

Maybe it’s just that pessimistic bit of me trying to keep my optimism up whenever I achieved the opposite of what I so willfully predicted.

Like, how I now think I won’t live past 40.

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David Tao– I’m Ok