I’m sure you’ve heard, but yesterday some nutcase drove all over San Francisco running over pedestrians on purpose. But did you know that Gavin visited the victims at the hospital? Hold on while I go stand in the middle of the street.
First of all, if I’m trapped in some ghetto hospital without hair products, make-up or push-up bras, there’s no way in hell I’m letting Nightingale Newsom near me. He can Make-My-Wish after I’ve recovered and have reclaimed my fabulousness. Trust me. I’ve been in the hospital. And I looked like shit.
So consider this my living will. If I’m hooked up to life support, clinging to consciousness or even in a goddamn coma, harvest my organs and divide up my crap but under no circumstances should anyone on my Top 5 be allowed within eye-shot of me. I don’t care if delirium has me calling out Gavin’s name in my last moments of time on this earth. Let me die alone rather than let him see me in a backless hospital gown with tubes emerging from various outlets. And should I perish in hideous solitude, having being driven over by some loon who forgot his cocktail of meds, I shall rest in peace knowing that Gavin will remember me looking my best as he tearfully watches my memorial video montage and lives the remainder of his life in celibacy…