17/08/2025
A pleasant Good Morning to all,
So we’re all on the same page, no confusion or misunderstandings when the time comes (especially if it’s sooner rather than later) here are my most up-to-date feelings in the event of my passing…
Service name: “I said what I said!”
Theme: NOT black. We’re celebrating, not mourning.
I’ve created a playlist (updated periodically as I go about life in this realm). Currently, I’m obsessed with Italian raptress Myss Keta. “Giovanna Hardcore” is the song I want played when my casket *or* urn is brought in.
Still undecided on cremation vs. burial. Decomposing initially felt ick—why not just be cremated? Ashes scattered: some in the sea, some in my backyard, a bit in Colorado. But lately… there’s something poetic about returning to the dirt we’re made of. Giving back to the earth that’s given me so much. Kinda digging that. So maybe cut me in half? Best of both worlds. Bury half of me and cremate the other half. Sounds like something I’d do.
Now… if anyone thinks I’m making light of this? I’m not.
Want to know something? I never met my grandfather (mom’s dad). He died young.
I knew my great-grandmothers, but not my great-grandfathers. My dad died young too. The male figures in my life perished young. I used to think it was a curse—that early death was the expected path for men in my bloodline.
That gave me a morbid outlook. Reflecting now, it’s why I was drawn to the macabre, the dark. My mentality *was* dark. I lived recklessly for years—the kind of life you could write a book or two about (hint).
My family knows I thought I’d be dead by 20. When that didn’t happen? Okay, 25. Nope.?
A shift happened in my mid to late 20s. I started caring about my life. More than before. Mainly because I saw I wasn’t going to die.
Belize.
Returning was the first step. I saw my 30’s in Belize. Things changed. I let go of so much darkness there. So much happened. So much keeps happening.
I won’t say I’m all light now—I’m not. How could I be? You can’t expect someone conditioned one way, marked by life, to just become the opposite. The darkness… it’s still there. But there *is* light now.
Maybe this helps explain why I named my alter ego “Pereztitution”(laughed that it rhymed with prostitution). For sure not “normal”, but I’ve never identified as normal anyway. What is normal? Who dictates that? Society? In 2025, believing society decides what’s normal is laughable. To me.
Kind-hearted? Don’t hurt others? That’s my MO, my “agenda.” But I also know I’ve got s**t to work through. Still healing. “Normal” doesn’t connect with that.
My 20s into 30s? Fun. Messy. Thrilling. So many things. I learned *immensely. A lot of healing happened late in my 30s. You mature too—that’s default no? Maybe not. But *I* did.
I hit my 40s. Wow. It was like facing my 20-year-old self in the mirror:
“You aren’t going to die. You didn’t die. Instead, you found yourself. You thrived.”
Now things have shifted. I have some making up to do. I have a life to live for . I *want* to live.
Do remnants of that unhealed 20-year-old remain? Or that hurt kid? Sure. But there’s a solid adult in the lead now. Maybe a little mentally unstable, but not here to hurt anyone.
Hurt myself? Maybe. But not here to cause harm. Here to be light, someway, somehow… despite being severely flawed.
40 freed me. I finally embraced me. I mean—what else will I do? Not love myself for the next 40–60 years? Nah. Gotta work with myself so we have a great time with whatever’s left.
At my funeral: I want tons of finger foods. Snacks. Hotdogs. Ceviches. I fu***ng love finger foods. Dips. Etc.
If Missy Elliot’s still alive? Cool if she performs. When I was a teen, “I’m not a pr******te but I can give you what you want” imprinted on me forever. (I now do marketing for Total, formerly Picame. See? Full circle with the “prostitution” thing.)
My dogs (whoever I have at the time) get front-row seats. Next to my loved ones. Approved family members can figure out their seating behind them. I’ve never been a “blood relatives are everything” person. We’re not carrying that into my funeral.
Nobody with a healthy mindset will argue about who *I* say my loved ones are. Those are the people I want close. They speak if they want to share words.
I’d hope anyone close to me stops randoms who barely knew me from rambling. Unless they’re saying I was amazing then by all means let them speak.
At this point, I identify as really talented. Adding—not subtracting—to everything I do. Bringing substance and worth.
To everyone: I never thought I had an attitude. If you thought I did? You were probably serving BS, and I—being allergic to it—called it out.
To some, that’s “difficult” or “not easy to work with.” Sure, in my 20s/30s I might’ve said things more rough… but for the most part I stand by what I said.
- Queen of the Bay that year *WAS* rigged.
- Governments (both sides) are corrupt.
- Religions are cults.
I’ll probably drop a book that day. Heck, a whole 3 month campaign. Who knows? I won’t care one bit. Why would I? I’m dead.
Be it burning in hell (if I don’t “get right with God”—that’s where I’m heading) or basking in His glory (if He shows mercy). IDK. I’ve done some things. I don’t feel pristine and white. Quite the opposite.
My mom—one of the realest people I know—is obsessed with her kids’ salvation. She injects it into every talk. Finally, During her last visit I broke her heart a little: told her the truth. How I feel. How I understand things.
I may end up in hell if I don’t “change my life” (her words).
I’m 40. I can’t pretend. Can’t fake—not even by not saying what I mean. Especially to a parent. Why pretend? God knows anyway. He see’s everything. I’d rather an authentic existence with Him and speaking truthfully even it’s not necessarily what others want to hear. Feels freeing. That’s where I’m at mentally these days.
The other day I told my business partner: big changes are coming. I’ve sensed it. Prepared for it. Some tough decisions these past months—all for a better future.
My future.
Thy will be done.
To those wishing to speak at my funeral: Comment your statement below for approval while I’m still here. Don’t wait till I’m dead so the crowd hears what *I* never got to.
Tombstone inscription:
“He came…”
That’s it.
I’m sure I’ll have more funeral ideas later. Will update periodically for my last will and testament.
- Hand fans:Chancla-shaped. Shannah can print them.
- I’d want Ale and Nadia handling the event.
- Other decor ideas? Feel free to suggest!
*...goes back to planning THE funeral of the century*
