Matthew Hubbard

Some new material that I’m working on:

I have often fantasized how my life would come to a momentous end. Perhaps I would be diagnosed with terminal cancer.  My days on this earth would be limited with the expiration date of my untimely demise. I would undergo treatment in a vain attempt for a little more time. My hair would fall out, signaling to the world of the battle I’m fighting. Pity would descend upon me as I tried to keep a brave face. I would fly though the stages of grief with agility and poise, taking a swan dive into the great unknown. Onlookers would lay their eyes on me with hope and inspiration as I lived my last days with my head held high. The purpose of my life would present itself with blaring trumpets of gloriousness. It would be then—right then and there on my death bed while I took my last breath—the meaning of my life would dawn on me while the sun set: the reason why I mattered.

And so, my soul would depart. Prepare my body. Inject the embalming fluid into my corpse to preserve what little longevity I had left. Let my life stand as a memorial to all those enduring my ill-fated diagnosis. That’s all I really cared about—the afterwards of my death. 

I don’t want any of that weepy, emotional shit either. Fucking celebrate it.     

Don’t roll my casket into a funeral home. I’m going to be buried in box, so let people view me outside in the sunshine. Let whatever residing force take pleasure in the warmth before the cold ground swallows me whole.          

Don’t play some tacky, tear-jerking music. I’ll come back and haunt whoever’s ass I have to. I want my favorite song by my favorite band blaring as loud as the speakers will allow. Sing along with the music if you know the words. I will be.

Don’t read some sappy eulogy. Read passages from my favorite books. Read little notes I might’ve written to you. Read my damn grocery list if you have to.

Don’t you dare wear black either. You better not. Wear that tacky sweater I made fun of. Wear those jeans I said made your ass look great. Wear those shoes I envied. Wear that shirt I bought you for your birthday. Just wear something that I know is you. Just be yourself without the pretenses of the occasion. Just be the friend I knew. 

Do show me that I mattered.

Please.

As I’m being lowered into the ground, whisper little inside jokes that we shared. Comfort me. Prove you aren’t going to let my existence fade away.

When you visit my grave, sweep the debris from my gravestone. Forget about all the fake ass flower arrangements. Leave a real one, a rose if you will, along with a bottle of Cognac. Pour me a shot. Toast to my existence and toss me a few coins for my thoughts. Keep my whirlwind of a life relevant; keep me in your life.

Morbid though it may be, but at least I would have some impact. It wasn’t that I wanted to die young under heart wrenching circumstances, no. I just wanted to know that I mattered. I just wanted to know that my life had purpose. That’s all I really wanted—to mean something.

To someone.