Lost WordsMature

Purgatory, limbo, a half assed attempt to reach the afterlife take your pick, it’s not like I give a flying fart now anyway.

I’ve always thought I’d die when I was old and wrinkly, maybe during my sleep or something like that. I’ve heard things about people getting run over, or people being stabbed, both of which are tragic and serious. I’ve also heard of far less dignified ways to go, it got me thinking, sure being trampled by an angry hippo is embarrassing, but what’s worse? That’s when it hit me (you have no idea how much that phrase makes me laugh now, the cliché of it, and the irony, oh the irony), anything toilet related, I mean, look at Elvis and that girl from that programme, what was it?, oh yeah ’Dead like me’ she got biffed on the head by a toilet seat falling from a broken old space station. Well, at least my death was only bathroom related, though I would have preferred a more dignified way to leave this world, if I’d actually left this world that is.

I’ve also always believed that last words are some of the biggest myths around. I mean, really, as if anyone could be that incredibly witty and clever on their death bed.

I know this is incredibly morose, but I suppose when you can’t sing, you have to have something to do in the shower, and for me, that is to think (yes, get your minds out of the gutter please) and this was the first thing that came into my head - psychoanalysts read into that what you will. Besides, what else are you supposed to think about while shampooing your hair? Well anything but death for a normal person I suppose.

Last words… how come someone’s always there to record them anyway? I think someone just comes up with them after they’ve actually died, or they thought of them a few days before and told someone to record them as such. Do you know what I think most people’s last words are? Either ‘Nurse!’ or ‘Oh shit’.

Last words… why are they so important we have to remember them anyway? Because they’re the last? I’d rather have some comfort from the truth rather than some ludicrously clever ideas that no sane person would be thinking about at the end. I want to hear that I’m not the only scared one at the end, to have that little piece of comfort from the similarity of us all in death.

What’s the point of all this, I mean, it’s all terribly morbid, right? I suppose the dead are and after all, I am dead. My last words? My lost words you mean.

You see, the last words are only ever recorded if you’re insanely important or rich, or, well both I guess. Basically, since I am neither, this wondering spirit’s last words were lost on the wind like a Mr Whippy is in front of a fat kid on a hot summer’s day. It’s not that important to my anyway, in fact, I’m kinda glad.

You see, my last words, my lost words, were not funny nor clever, not witty nor profound, they weren’t dripping with wisdom and they won’t lend themselves to generations to come. No, my lost words were simple and to the point, as I slipped in the shower and split my head open on the concrete rim before the broken, supposedly shatter proof, glass did the fatal damage, the only words that slipped from my lips?; ‘Oh shit.’

Perhaps that’s why there was no one there to record my last words; not because I’m not terribly important or rich, but down right boringly ordinary and predictable.

Maybe. Or maybe because it would be a bit weird for someone to be sitting in my bathroom taking notes while I showered.

The End

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