I don’t always think about death, but when I do, I really think about it. A part of dying is learning that the quality of the things you put on and inside yourself really matters. The horror that I would be buried in threadbare underwear. The horror! Those faded patterns, the elastic that has seen better days. And the horror of discovering, in the final moments, that I’m not the only sucker of my boyfriend’s penis. What an ignoble end!

Because in the grand scheme of things, I really matter. Me, ravaged by all my wishful thinking; subsumed by the hopeless love pursuits and the relentness passage of time. I have become a canvas of poor choices painted with the dark strokes of cheap alcohol and the greasy fingerprints of late-night binges. Each single sip from the bottle was a tiny rebellion. A rebellion! Against something! There ought to be something. I know this. The fact that I know this means that I am conscious of what I am doing. I am a woman of substantial intellect.

Mona Lisa was buried at the church of Sant’Orsola in Mantua Italy. Cecilia Gallerani was buried in the Carminati family tomb in the Church of San Zavedro, also in Italy.

Here’s my turn. Will I end up in some nondescript plot, six feet under the Asian grocer? Or perhaps my final resting place will be under a dilapidated tree in a forgotten park, with squirrels as my only mourners. Honestly, if I can’t have a grand burial like Mona or Cecilia, I’d settle for a good old-fashioned potluck. Friends gathered, sharing stories and snacks. Except I’m solitary, uneventful and have no teeth.

I, however, have a broken body and one crippled soul. Take them if you like. Cheers to our last supper.