One of my favorite scenes in all movies is the scene in Annie Hall where Woody Allen and Diane Keaton are buying books and Allen keeps trying to buy Keaton books about death. She says something like: “Why do all the books you suggest have death in the title?” and he reponds with something like: “It’s a very important topic. I’m obsessed with death I think.”
Obviously, Woody Allen is one of my idols, and one of the people from history I relate to strongest. I too am obsessed with death. I am obsessed with obsessing about how I will be remembered. I thought of this recently because I admitted in conversation with a friend that I have attempted to plan out my last words for years, never coming to a conclusion.
Voltaire and Pancho Villa have my favorite last words.
Voltaire, when asked to renounce Satan on his deathbed responded with: “This is no time to make new enemies.”
Pancho Villa’s are the ones I relate to most: “Don’t let it end like this. Tell them I said something.”
I am so scared that I will leave this world I hated so much without making an effect, and your last words are your last opportunity to have that profound effect, and I want that to be meaningful. Woody Allen continues his rant about death to talk about how he divides the world in to two groups: the horrible and the miserable. Most of us are in that latter group. “The Horrible” is reserved for cripples, starving, and AIDS patients.
I, again, relate to this. I feel life is just a miserable sack of shit, and yet I want to make my sack of shit affect as many people as possible. I want my sack of shit to be remembered. Last words are your last opportunity to be rememebered for something. That’s why I’ve been planning mine since I was in High School.
“I wish more people were here to watch.”
I like that one because it describes me well. But it’s not that funny, nor is it relatable to others.
My life is very public. I have little to no secrets. This is because I share all that I think with everyone that will listen and some that won’t. My friends are just the people who can deal with listening to my ramblings about what/who I think is important. Often I make this discussion into a game. Recently I forced my friends to respond to a poll I created where we each had to pick the people we’d most like to take on a road trip, put in a jacuzzi with us, have a dinner party with, and cohabitate our workplace with us.
“I wish I was as smart as I think I am so that I could say something profound now.”
That one is beautifully meta, but a little wordy and awkward. Maybe that’s perfect. Also, I don’t think I’m smart, I think I’m funny. I don’t want my last words to be a lie. Sort of.
These games of placing historical figures into situations with myself has made me realize that I only like funny people. I’m the only one out of my friends who refused to pick someone who isn’t predomininantly known for his/her sense of humor. In my first analysis of the responses to my poll that I posted last entry, I have dicovered I have a similar reaction. (Thanks to those who responded – I want more before I write about what I found out) I get annoyed when anyone chooses someone who is not a comedian for the person they have dinner with because I can’t understand the motivation behind choosing a baseball player or a politician. The other thing I discovered is that less people use facebook to find me than I thought.
“Someone change my facebook status… that’s too contrived. Let everyone know that I planned to stay ‘that’s too contrived’ as my last words. I’m a whore.”
I like those words. Too wordy. Too meta. Too obnoxious. Too everything I am.