When I die, I want to be lifted up towards the heavens with ropes. No offence to those who are lowered into hades with ropes, not that it makes a difference when you’re dead.
I say this because this may be the only time I use the word "dangled."
Dangle: 'hang or swing loosely.'
Or it’s more appropriate meaning,
'offer (an enticing incentive) to someone.'
Except there’s nothing enticing about a dangling dead body unless it resurrects and ascends.
And now that I have used the word, I prefer my dead body to be dangled in front of space rather than earth. I deserve to rise above this gravity prison like that air fist pump in "The Breakfast Club." That way, I am the hero who got what I wanted instead of the creep eating dust beneath the prison and rolling in my grave every time a piece of me turns into a brick.
I want my family and friends and acquaintances to see my bum up my death dress. I want them to turn away in embarrassment or miserable laughter at my naked bum.
To feel weightless and bask in spatial freedom that comes after shedding the burden of the elusive universal leech known as a soul.
New myths start; "hollow bones and abandoned flesh float above the living because death is the scissor that cuts gravity." Everything that touches a dead body starts to float."
“You’re connected to a dead star, and when you die, you go where it went," someone whispers in the back…
“Okay, that’s enough," a family member says, worried that the death dress might blow up and show more bum, "she did not specify a duration for the dangle. Put her down so we can pay our respects."
Pay your respects? There's nothing more disrespectful than looking down at the dead.
Anyway, it's really hot, and my baking brain conjured up a vivid image of my body dangling in a cool breeze while my soul leaves it to dangle like a foetus without a personality.
I'm sorry for telling you about my bum.