D7: Don’t bury yourself in a ball gown.

I’m Oscarita and it was a stupid idea to bury myself alive in the cemetery at dusk. At twenty two years of age, with my small frame and weak disposition, the grave itself was only 1 foot deep and 3 feet wide.

I wanted my funeral to be the event of the century. Think Beyonce times 10. 

Gaga meets Selena on a cruz ship in the Bahamas.

Celia Cruz meets Rhianna.

#gasp.

I wanted todo, everything.

Glitter.

A 50 foot runway to salsa to my death from. I’d leap off stage and disappear into my grave where everyone would cheer and clap. Begging for an encore, I’d levitate out of the ground like Jesus and rise on stage again in my sequence gown.

Sequence everywhere

Imagine…

Huge hair.

1980’s bootie shorts.

Fireworks.

Seashells.

Fishnets.

You know…sexy, classy, chic.

And it would be streamed live for the world to see.

I’d call it “Death On Fleek: A Close Up”.

But.

None of this happened, because no one wanted to f*ckin’ show up and help coordinate the funeral of the century.

So as I lay in the ground, the cold dirt all over my pretty face, worms contemplating rimming my ass, ugh and the stench, I weeped.

I pulled out my phone to snapchat my final moments.

“Ah, I need to play my song.”

But the bluetooth on my portable speakers didn’t work with my phone while buried 12 inches underground so I couldn’t even play Selena “Como la flor”.

I specifically asked the guy at the mall if the speakers would work if I was buried underground. He said, “100% of the time, every time, yes.”

He even told me some story of how he used to drop acid and that one time, when he buried his friend alive. When he stopped tripping, he realized what had happened and called his friend on his phone.

The friend answered. He was at McDonalds.

“It’ll work,” he said. “Just don’t bury yourself too deep.”

Abuela had her eyes glued to the T.V. screen, fully engrossed in her novela. She laughed before I could even tell her which cemetery I’d be at.

Mami slapped me in the head before I finished my sentence and grabbed her chancleta for reinsurance purposes.

“No me hables de estas tonterias!” she screamed.

Chuleta, our family dog, was lazy as shit. She didn’t like loud music and I wasn’t going to have her drool all over my gown.

No, no, no.

Chuleta’s ass was staying home.

Suddenly, I started to hear drumming in the near distance and people singing.

Wtf was that, I thought. Don’t people know there’s a service taking place here? That a would-have-been-diva is about to take her last breath?!

This asteroid was really f*ckin with my flow. 

The drumming and people got louder.

Suddenly, I hear my mom’s voice yelling at me to come in and get dinner. The policia were at the front door and we had to gather our things to go into the bunkers. The asteroid was coming.

I crawled out of my pathetic grave and dusted the dirt off my own gown. I vogued my way through the backyard, did a somersault over some poop, and thrusted the backdoor wide open.

There sat the police man, mami and Chuleta, all staring at me.

Suddenly, my speakers began to work and I could hear Selena’s voice blast throughout my backyard and pierce the awkward silence.

“Como la flor, como la flor, esta tu amor…” 

My gown was on point.

My hair…wilder than a bitch in heat.

I looked at the police man.

I looked at my mother.

I grunted at Chuleta.

“Let me get my crown.”

Advice for the end of the world: Die with dignity. Crowns are classier than mumus.