#putting the fun in funeral

[merciawintersageposting]

[hiding-all-the-bodies]

The year is 2099. Friends and family gather for my funeral. My last request was to have an open casket. The lid of the casket is opened, revealing a smaller casket. Guests watched in awe as the caskets give way to smaller and smaller wooden boxes. Finally, there is a 1x2x1 inch box. My eldest granddaughter opens it, revealing a note. The note reads: "I have donated my body to science". Everybody eats funeral potatoes.

[crepuscularpete]

[l-b-o]

[kingshook1]

[zkretchy]

So the background being that poppy was a pure anything but anything grimdark neutral looked wrong afterwards so...pop~ Today is a day of artistic edge or whatever you call it and alas-Aiden had to suffer my mood here today because ~aesthetics~-they are there to be enjoyed

[average-submas-enthusiast]

Putting the "Fun" in FUNERAL Chapter 8 preview...?

ik, ik very rare where I actually post about the fanfic I'm writing.

Anyways, here's the preview

Ingo sat in bed, trying to remember the dream he had the previous night when he heard a knock. Ingo’s anxiety levels spiked. What if that was Emmet? Would he be different?

”Would… I be different?” Ingo thought to himself. Ingo hadn't given it much thought, but 3 years is a lot of time to be missing, especially from someone like his brother. How much has he changed? Was he… even the same brother Ingo had lost?

“Come in.” he finally managed to croak out. The door slowly swung open revealing…

[howlingwolf23]

Put the FUN in funeral!

Have a raffle, the winning ticket gets the ashes!

[wanderways-official]

Funeral parlor owner in a full denim suit, call them a jortician

[gorequette]

oc. (and serious)

[essenceofnorwich]

In memoriam

I imagine my funeral more often than I’d care to admit. Not dying. Never the reason for it. But the event! I can picture it in sparkling detail.

A sad lonely church. A place that would make me cringe if I were to walk through the doors. My spirit. My ghost. They would be nowhere near the venue.

I’m sure there would be some nice words from my family about my spiritual history. Some condolences for themselves in hoping I would be in their heaven. As my soul would be cackling from the crackling seventh level of hell. Not that I was ever actually taught the layers of hell were true.

I think I lost my salvation in the same worn out laundry basket where I toss my stained panties and soiled bed sheets.

I can imagine the songs they’ll play. Melodies that chill me to my bone now— of hollowed out happiness, hypocrisy and white supremacy.

All of the attendants believing that I believed to my last breath. That I believed that Jesus Christ was the incarnation of the Hebrew God (the god they like to pretend is not Jewish at all). That the Bible was flawless. And that I agreed that women should be silent and owned.

They will not read the works I have written. They will not talk about my dream to have a home for my community and not a perfect husband and three kids like all my straight cousins.

They will not mention that my blood ran pink, purple and blue. That the smiles I put on for church were emptied of all meaning. That I often was not happy. Because it was my pretty pretty joy that made them feel better that they broke me apart to fit me into their Christian shaped mould.

I think of how my best friend and my cousin will be the only two who know that I listen to shitty music and write erotica and dream of worlds where the word socialism meant caring for people and not North Korea or the fall of the USSR.

I can’t decide if I’m sad. Or resigned. Or happy that I’ll pull one last great heist— having died a woman who bloomed despite the cold shadow of the church’s imperial might.

Duped them into blessing how I am more curses and witchcraft than blood soaked redemption. Deceived them into lauding me for being a light for the might of the church when I’m reality I took every private opportunity to tear apart the ideals that twisted my heart out of shape. I find it is more human and less cross shaped these days. As it should be.

[psychologeek]

I'm doing the Shabbat (staying over for weekend) with my family at the north.

So far over 150 missiles towards the Galilee and Golan.

Asked to stay near shelter.

Zfad really is putting the Fun in Funeral:

A missile went swimming (a fall in public swimming pool in Zfad).

Another one fell by a playground, causing a wildfire.

If this looks familiar, you might be thinking about another playground, in Majdal Shams. A playground where 12 kids were murdered by Hamas rocket, not even a month ago

~

This is a house in Metula (photo yesterday)

~

For the actual fun part:

Oh, lovely childhood memories.

Back in MY days, we were just called "Toshvey Hatzafon" (North residents) and not "Mefunim" (departed/displaced/evacuated). And got special discounts and free entry to the Safari in ramat Gan, just to meet the entire neighborhood there with us LOL.

For all the younglings that don't know what I'm talking about -

The song that predicted the future!

(Just realised this song can legally drink now???)

[gotsnoonetotalkto]

How does one have a swag bag at they’re funeral?

I want t-shirt, stickers, pens, cups!

I want so many people to show up! I want the strangest funeral!

I would be so happy if my swag lasted long enough that people ask why someone has a cup with a tombstone and my name on it. All badly hand drawn obviously. Like with vistaprint I can get envelope seals. I have too much power and I will be so sad if my funeral doesn’t happen like this.

I wanna be dead and get fomo from my funeral

[koroart]

Canon didn’t let them meet because they’d be pulling shit like this

[solemnly-lament]

I feel like I should pick up some kind of a hobby during the winter months. Crocheting sounds mildly interesting.

[ilovemesomevincentprice]

The boys chilling behind the scenes of The Comedy of Terrors (1963)

Vincent Price, Peter Lorre, Basil Rathbone and Boris Karloff