I think about death a lot, my death in particular. Not in a deep manner, debating the meaning of my existence or what might happen to me after death; if you want my two cents, when you’re dead, you’re dead. Burn me, bury me, chuck me in the sea, feed me to the wolves or sell my organs on the black market for all I care. I’m aware this is totally self-indulgent: cake as well, why ever not?! I spend hours, days and weeks having inner debates regarding the popularity of my funeral.
I’ve never thrown a party before: too much pressure for so much disappointment. So if I dropped dead tomorrow I’d hope there’d be a good turnout; at least the pressure wouldn’t be on me to entertain my guests. Will there be a good buffet and cheap drinks on offer? I hope so, there’s nothing worse than being obligated to attend a party and not even being able to afford a vodka and coke to get you through it. What about tearful speeches from my loved ones resulting in the sharing of some of their fondest memories with me? Will someone turn up wearing florescent pink just to make a statement? Will there be pictures of me hung on the walls of the local public house just in case someone gate crashes and has no idea who’s dead? If so they’d better Instagram it first or I’ll haunt them from beyond the grave.
Most of all though I think about how people will remember me once I’m gone, so I’ve taken the liberty of penning my own eulogy. Helen Fisher: sassy bitch who gave it her all 50% of the time, peanut butter fanatic and loyal to those who deserved it. Death by cheese, wine and worrying about the wankers. May she rest in peace as she never usually sleeps through the night.