I remember lying awake at night, trying to imagine the best possible version of my future, which always assumed a similar form. After college, a vaguely important job where I wore blazers and pencil skirts. A husband (ideally hot) after a respectable number of boyfriends. Finally, clear skin. But when I tried to fantasize about these rote and sensible futures, my mind always wandered to my death. Specifically, I imagined my funeral—what it would look like, who would attend, who I would have my funeral bouncer turn away at the door (I had clearly never been to a funeral before). It wasn’t
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