What do you want on your tombstone?

I want to smell like earl grey and sandalwood. I want to be found dead surrounded by the coziest of sweaters, the comfiest of blankets, the dessicated skeletons of my bosom buddies, my favorite tea, a bowl of blueberries, and a steady stream of books and art. There would be glade anemones and ranunculous woven in my hair. Fluffy hills of whipped cream in colorful footed bowls on the shelves. Glass bottles of every shape and color would hang from the ceiling and clink with the breeze. The walls would echo with my last vulgar obscenities. I would be holding a single spoon. There would be a claw-footed bathtub filled with shimmering, gold-green olive oil.

Keep the party going. I want dance music to be played at my funeral. I want everyone to eat well, and drink even better. I want people to light sparklers and bottle rockets off my funeral pyre. I want to glow in the dark, to shoot screaming high into the sky at the trembling hands of my friends. I want them to forget everything for a moment but the taste of clean, cold fruit in their mouths, and the tilting, wheeling sensation that comes from looking up for a long time.

My idea of heaven

Rule: It is occasionally proper to be a diva. It is less okay to be emo. Figure out the fine line regarding your eventual return to wherever it is you believe you came from.