I’m sick. Not sick enough to be legitimately concerned for my life, but sick enough that I’ve gone completely melodramatic (not that I wasn’t before). Sick enough, anyway, to compose my eulogy. I would like it to be read by Louise Rennison while a backing track of “Body Beautiful” by Salt-n-Pepa plays softly:
Cappy. What a beautiful girl she was. More beautiful than all the rest. She had a passion for passion, a knowledge of knowledge, and a life too short to fit her. Because she was tall.
Cappy. She liked British things too much. She liked stand-up comedy and listening to books on tape. Sometimes her love of water aerobics caused her to be mistaken for an old lady, but that was to be expected, because she was pretty wrinkly.
Cappy. She had a name that rhymed with happy, and happy she was. Cappy. Sometimes people mistook her boyfriend for her brother, and that was awkward. Cappy. People tried to tell her she was too smart to work at McDonalds, but she wouldn’t listen because she loved sausage biscuits too much. Cappy. She craved Thai food in the middle of the night. Cappy. She craved every other food at every other time of the day. Cappy.
CAPPY! She had beeeeen to the mountaintop! Granted, it was more of a hill, but this is her eulogy, so deal with it. She had beeeeen to the mountaintop and got stuck there and never came down. She was forced to live a simple life from then on, herding goats and such, married to a man named Marcus Terhunk who treated her well, but not as well as Elvis could have, but Elvis was dead and there was nothing changing about that. Unless the conspiracy theories were true, in which case Elvis totally stood Cappy up at the altar of the mountaintop and forced her to marry this Terhunk fellow and carry his strange last name with her for the rest of her days.
And then Cappy died. She died a terrible death of snottus on the brainus. Terhunk was by her side during her last hours, though in her last hours she thought he was a sheep and kept trying to get him back to the stables. That was how hard she worked herding sheep and goats and other slightly fuzzy animals. Really hard. That is how hard.
So mourn her. Mourn her from the bottom of your heart. Mourn her from the depths of your soul! Mourn her from the heightening Alleghenies of Pennsylvania! Mourn her from the prodigious hilltops of New Hampshire! Mourn her from the mighty mountains of New York! MOURN HER! Mourn her from the Wendy’s on the corner to the Edo in the foodcourt. Mourn her from the bus stop to the greyhound station.Mourn her from the beginning of this sentence to the end of it. Mourn her as she mourned the loss of her husband-to-be Elvis. Mourn her.
And that, my friends, is my eulogy. Please note that all of this is completely true, so be amazed and wish you’d known me better. Because I will die now.