How I Want To Be Remembered When I Join The 27 Club
It's that time of year again: The anniversary of my mother and father's "biggest mistake," or what I choose to refer to as "my birthday." Twenty-seven years ago, I was born after my father received a - what's now known - failed vasectomy. Some may refer to me as a "miracle child" or a "gift from God," but my parents prefer using the age-old adage, "a living argument against being pro-life."
Many lessons were learned during that time. My parent's discovered that a vasectomy doesn't immediately make you infertile. We learned that being pro-life is terrific, that is, until it bites you in your own ass. And we especially learned that "accidentally" falling down the stairs while pregnant is only going to backfire in the long run if you don't do it right the first time.
As told by my mother, it's a fact that she hysterically cried the night she found out she was pregnant with me. With two kids already around and her newly budding career, she felt as though she wouldn't have the time to be a good mother to her third child….We learned to trust your instincts.
(I’m just kidding, mom).
Throughout the years, I've come to understand how our view towards birthdays can gradually shift as we grow older. After reaching the legal drinking age of 21, it's only natural for one's excitement level for aging to take a sharp dip.
This isn't something you realize immediately after turning 21, though. Twenty-two, three, and four all seem bleak. But something happens at 25; The tides begin to turn, as displayed by this highly complex graph I created:
In the years preceding 21, real-life starts to set in. Careers begin, and dreams die. Enthusiasm towards turning older will abruptly tank downwards. By the time you reach 25, it's conceivable that you've officially hit rock bottom. Until, of course, that tiny light at the end of the tunnel appears: The coveted "27 Club" is finally within reach.
Oh, godammit: How does this guy keep getting in here? I get he's my only imaginary fan, but could we manage to get someone who isn't always calling me out in the middle of my articles?
Ok...you caught me, Craig. The truth is, I’m not actually that dark of a person. I’m in it for the image, but can you blame me? Mental health issues are just so in right now, and I’m choosing to ride the wave.
Listen, think of it this way: I wear mental illness and depression the same way you wear a Carhartt jacket: We're both just cosplaying. To stay on top of my game, it's vital that I evolve with the times. I used to be an athlete in high school, but now I just tell people I'm misunderstood. How else do you expect me to fit in and relate to all these super funny "my therapist" jokes?
I'll admit it: The amount of time I put into this website may say otherwise, but life’s going pretty well for me. I have no real reason to be sad like one of these poor people.
…I have no real reason to be sad like one of these Android users.* I'm just doing what LeBron told me to do:
Fitting in can be difficult, though. Like so many of my white suburban millennial peers, it’s difficult to keep up this faux depression when our lives are so sick. In order to stay on top of my game, I have to set aside 2 hours a day just to brainstorm reasons why I’m so unhappy.
I don't have the benefit of signing into social media for a daily "pick-me-up." Pessimistic social media isn’t like entrepreneurship social media. I can’t simply pull up Instagram and see something as profoundly inspiring as this:
You should be thankful that you have the privilege to take to Twitter for quick doses of motivation. As for us sad boy's, they locked up our Gary Vee:
...with 27 comes thoughts about what kind of legacy I'll leave behind. To be brutally honest with myself, if I were to die today, there's not a chance that God is letting me into the 27 club. Your boy hasn’t exactly lived the most extraordinary life. I’m one more mundane year of life and refusal to develop a real personality away from being forever labelled the God-forsaken description of “He's nice.” Nice isn't a personality. I don't want "he was nice" to be my legacy.
That's why I have to leave my followers with something to remember me by; Something that will get my foot in the door of that club; Something so revolutionary that it changes the way you think. But what?
Well, I’ve decided to pre-plan my funeral. I want it to reflect everything my life was: A tasteless joke. Let's break it down:
Growing up, nearly all of my heroes were black. This, in turn, caused me to develop a deep desire to be black. Everything I did reflected those who I looked up to. I could describe myself in more words than you’d like to read, but I think this famous picture embodies who I was as a kid:
Today, that same 7-year-old might be accused of cultural appropriation, but back then, we were just called wiggers. I mean, even my create-a-player in video games wore virtual black face - Something I’ve profusely apologized for in the past:
There were many times when I was taunted for wanting to be black. It made me grow up thinking I was doing something wrong. I was too black for the whites, too corny for the blacks. I imagine it’s similar to what Logic felt like. But now I realize it wasn’t my fault. Thanks to hero’s like Rachel Dolezal, I've come to recognize that race is fluid. So let me say it here for the first time publicly: I’m proud to be transracial.
Unfortunately for me, transracialism still isn’t publicly accepted…
That’s why I’d like to have an open-casket funeral, with black face draped across my skin. Feather's will be ruffled - I realize this. But as Lizzo said, we have to make people uncomfortable for them to accept a new reality.
To ensure an extreme level of discomfort, there shall be no mention of such blackface at any point during the funeral. I want to act as though it was completely normal. This way, I can be buried looking exactly how I felt my entire life.
2…Flat Line Tattoos
I’ve always been a huge proponent of morbidity tattoos. There’s no better way to commemorate a loved one than getting inked in their memory. It’s why I have my Grandpa’s name tattooed on me.
Thinking more about it, he’d absolutely hate it if he had the chance to see it. He always said tattoos were for….actually, it's better that I leave that part out..
Recently, I’ve become more and more intrigued with the “final heartbeat" tattoo. Why should we stop there? Let's take it a step further; Why not flatline tattoos?
For that reason, I’ve written it into my will to set aside a portion of cash to pay two full-time, on-duty tattoo artist’s to be at my funeral to tattoo straight lines on those who have one too many drinks after the wake. What better way to remember me than with my cold, dead, lifeless heartbeat permanently inked on your wrist?
3…Designated Time For Instagram Hand Picture’s
Tattoo’s are great, but nobody's going to understand my funeral attendee’s pain unless they get an opportunity to post something about it on social media. Not to worry, I have a plan for that too.
To make sure everyone at my funeral is able to receive their social media condolences, I’ll be setting aside time before and after the wake so that my loved ones can take the classic “holding hands with a dead loved one” picture. If you're not using my death to squeeze out as much attention for yourself, then I don't consider you a friend.
I won’t be taking any chances, though. I’ve set more cash aside to fly out seven of the most elite hand models to bless this world. They’ll be working closely with the mortician to make sure my hands are in pristine shape. I'll be lifeless, but my hands will be glowing.
Funerals can be a sad and confusing place for children. They’ve barely started living their own lives, so it's hard to expect them to grasp the full gravity of the situation To help keep their spirits high, I've formulated a way to introduce them to death in a fun and unique way.
During the wake, the kids will be escorted to a separate room. There, a variety of activities will be offered to keep the children busy during the funeral. The most important of those activities will be performed by an underpaid face painter. No matter what the child requests - a lion, tiger, clown - they’ll always receive the same thing: blackface.
Again - and I can't stress this enough - in order to push transracialism, we have to make those around us uncomfortable, even if that uncomfortable feeling is borderline, undoubtedly racism.
5…A Choice Of A Sticker Or A Shirt
When the activities are over, and the children return to their parents - freshly painted faces and all - it'll finally be time to end my morbid party. As my final gesture, alter boys (or whoever run's wakes/funerals) will be set up by the exits to hand out a gift.
Each person who attends my funeral will have the choice of a motocross RIP bumper sticker or an airbrushed t-shirt with my name on it.
When all three of my black friends inevitably choose the only three airbrushed tee shirts I'll order, and all the white people naturally gravitate towards the sticker and place it on their back vehicle window before leaving, the parking lot will simultaneously fill with a collective, singular fit of laughter. It will be then that everyone recognizes that through our differences, we are still the same weird creature.
At once, the nation's racial divisiveness will dissolve as people of all ethnicities come out of their homes to join in on singing The Remix To Ignition by R. Kelly in a beautiful moment of racial and musical harmony.
That being said, ending racism isn't God's reasoning for putting me on this Earth. It's just one small part that I'll have offered the world. So what exactly is my ultimate purpose? What will transpire from my demise? Excellent question.
...when I finally pass away from a purposeful, accidental overdose, and people look back on my memory, I want them to accept that no matter how despicable of a person R. Kelly may be, there’s no denying that he drops BANGERS. You’re the one being ignorant if you refuse to admit that…
Cuz it’s the remix to ignition,
R Kelly’s been pissin,
We always knew he was bad,
Lady Gaga was fibbin,
Snortin coke out of bums,
I’m like, I know what he done
But it’s the freakin’ weekend baby I’m about to have me some…