I've been here the whole time,

[Hannah]

so surprised I'm not. About a month ago I had a revelation, you know, the turning kind referenced in that faithed book, regarding burials. After you die on this earth, you have a few socially accepted choices determining whereabouts your body will rest. There are following the period that is now.

Casket burial. All of your lying, cheating friends and relatives pick out a wooden box with metal hinges, dress you in frothy white garb, smear your face with pumpkin juice and sew your eyes shut. All of your guts are removed to make room for gallons of formaldehyde, a simple molecule that acts as an antibacterial preservant, killing the nasty little bacteria that make the world go round. With this option, not only are you cutting down a tree and supporting the huge man-made Kennecott scar to make a death bed that will take years until biodegradeable, you are pumped full of medicine in effort to preserve your dead body that has no need for any of this.

Taxidermy. Fun for everyone, even strangers. Your skin is stripped, tanned, remolded over metallic bones and polyester batting. Your eyes are gouged and donated to the eye bank, your brain stripped from their sockets. Plastic, yet infused hair will replace your locks, colors interchangeable. Roly-poly eyeballs are glued in place, fingernails trimmed for months, and your old wardrobe revered and worn out. No one will even know it's not the real you. "Sandra has a headache, she doesn't want to talk."

Cremation. Kind of scary. Let's say you aren't dead, but in an anesthetically paralyzing coma that makes it impossible to move or communicate. You listen to the sobbing, the preparations, the prayers, feel the rose thorns in your chest, want to scream out and stop this madness, but you can't. In you go, Gretyl, to the 2,000 degree oven that is going to bake your joints until only dust remains. You will feel each nerve singe, each bone fragment, each hair disintegrate, each blood cell evaporate. It isn't instant, it could take awhile.

Crucifixion. Dead batteries don't kick. Scratch this one.

Dig-a-hole-and-bury-me-in-it. This is my choice for resting. When I die of lung cancer, or aneurism, or submission of living will, none of the above-mentioned suit. There is no reason to waste time and effort beyond digging a hole too deep for dogs to dig. Then drop in my gourd and fill it back up. I want to feel myself return back into the ground that sustains my life. Let worms eat through my skin, let the acid from wet leaves char me into more manageable pieces for their tiny mandibles. Prop my mouth open and fill it with dirt, leave me naked in the ground to scream at the roots that threaten my place. Bury me with my sisters or bury me alone, alone I will wrought.

it's all true

[Jared]

How about we eat you?

Or at least feed you to pigs.

That way a dog won't dig you up and drag your head out and frighten little kids with it.

Perhaps we can make a power plant that runs on dead-people fuel, kind of a crude matrix kind of deal... hmm...

-Jared

"Fred it looks like we've got an eater."

[kweejee]

I'd like to have my body placed somewhere out the wild to let the scavengers get a taste of me. I've always enjoyed nature.

[Napalm]

The vikings waited until you just started to putrify to make sure you were dead. Then, they emptied your guts out and fed them to farm animals. After that, they put you in a small boat with a sail, sent it out to sea, and then ignited it with flaming arrows as it left the shore. Thats beautiful if you ask me.