Used Up (v2.0)

(After talking to a good friend today, I thought I'd post this. 

I'm not sure if I've posted it before, but if not...)

       

           It’s occurred to me that I want to be all used up when I die. Useless, depleted, frail, dilapidated, worn-out and geezered-out-beyond-belief. In other words, I’m not looking to be one of those in-shape-almost-looks-alive dead guys.

          Nope.

          I want to be worn to a frazzle—and if I have my way, even the last frazzle will be showing signs of acute over-use and imminent failure. If a American Society of Certified Frazzle Technicians (ASCFT) were to view the remains, I’d prefer he or she say they’d never seen a frazzle in such danger of imminent declivity, so close to meltdown.

          It’s not like I’m stingy or anything. Pretty much the contrary. I’ll give away whatever I have just not to have it..... no, it’s just that I want to make really sure there’s nothing left in this old carcass when it’s time to check out.

          Some might accuse me of being a little too heavy into the recycling mindset.

          Nope.

          I don’t really care about recycling, but I do believe in cycling. Not the two wheeled type, although it does speak well for itself. No, I’m talking about the tried-and-true use it up before you get rid of it mentality.

          I don’t want to die with a lot of unused hair. I’m thinking it would be best if my last hair, worn to a puny, tattered nub, falls out just as the croakage commences. Why die with hair? Where I’m going, hair won’t matter much. Plus, hair smells really bad when it burns.

          I’d like to be about 3 feet tall when the really serious expiring begins. I hope I’ve worn my feet completely off and what’s left of my knuckles drag the ground. I figure if my feet are worn off and that I’m a sturdy yard tall, I’ll most likely have walked just about far enough. Nothing like a pair of worn-out feet to document a well-traveled life.

          It would be a shame to leave with teeth, don’t you think? I’m not talking about the store-bought kind, I mean the real things. I simply can’t figure what I’d do with teeth once I’m dead, so I guess the last one could finally loosen up enough to just spit out at the last minute. As long as I have one tooth with which to gnaw my last bowl of prune-powered gruel, things will be fine with me in the dental department.

          Any stray, remaining, unspoken words would be best dispensed with, just prior to the big blast-off. Somehow, I feel I’ll have enough disconnected verbiage to last until the end. I rather hope my meager supply of reason has been depleted prior to then, so whatever words I do conjure up are so unrelated, whoever is listening will spend the rest of their coffee break trying to make some sense of them.
         

          Sorta like a short-term legacy. Seems fitting to me.

          I want to detonate any unused sounds prior to checking out too. Sneezes, wheezes, burps, groans, sniffles, & snorts. The whole enchilada. Speaking of enchiladas brings to mind a few other sounds that might be readily available at the last moment.

          I hope my refrigerator is empty too. No half-empty cartons of green stuff hiding in the back, right hand corner--no perma-frosted mystery meat in the freezer. I hope my last box of cereal ends along with me. I hope my last quart of buttermilk and I share the same expiration date. I hope there isn’t any fruit left to spoil along with me.

          Nope.

          I want to be used up.

          I’d really like to be wearing my last, shredded shirt, a pair of worn and ragged pants and maybe one shoe. No socks. Underwear only if someone insists. Why anyone would want to leave a closet full of clothes and used underwear behind escapes me. But then again, lots of things have escaped me. Reminds me of those enchiladas....

          No, I don’t want to look good during the croaking. I want to have used up all my hair, be as wrinkled as a mutant prune, weigh about 4 pounds, and be barely covered in rags. I’d as soon cross the line running on fumes and coasting on the thinnest of tires.

          I hope I’m almost out of the important stuff too. Love and humor.

          If my final croaking breath is spent making those important to me understand my feelings for them and makes them smile…. I figure I’ll be pretty well used up, and ready to turn the page.