Dibs for Dying First

I’ve claimed it. Over Batman. I don’t care when you go—well, I do, because you’re awesome—but in this relationship, the one involving the caped crusader and I, I’ve called dibs. I don’t want to be left behind with the ostriches and the castle-mansion mortgage and of course, Fartswell.

It wouldn’t be the same.

Walk the Line was on.

It’s inevitable that every time we catch some segment of the film, Batman and I will turn to each other and claim the right to die first. This probably seems odd as this is a love story, but Johnny Cash passed three months after June Carter. THREE MONTHS. If that’s not dying of a broken heart, I don’t know what is. And who wants to be left with that? A broken heart? Hence the dibs. I die first and you must accept the suckage of living without my awesomeness. I think that’s fair. Oh! And if this is *true* love between us, I’ve explained to Batman that he MUST hold my body in his shaking arms with a waterfall of tears, like Snape did with Lily. That’s how I’ll know it’s real.

Come on, who wasn’t crying that exact moment? Even if you hated Snape the entire time and really did think he killed Dumbledore (what—have you no faith in people?) his absolute love of Lily was too much not to get choked up over. I’m serious—EVERY time I watch that scene, I cry. EVERY TIME. Sometimes, when I’m too lazy to get up and put the movie on, I’ll YouTube that part and just start crying over my laptop. Batman looks at me like he’s not sure if he should pretend he doesn’t see me, or grab me a full glass of wine. Before he does either, I sniffle, turn the screen to him and yell, “You better love me this much! I want you to shake my body when I’m dead!” at which point he goes back to playing XBOX and pretending he has less of a weirdo for a girlfriend.

But I’m serious. Dibs for dying first, bitch. That’s my motto. Sure he can marry some skank after I’m gone, but will she compare to me? That’s most likely a no, unless he marries up like Emma Stone. She’s probably the only exception. But anyone else and it just won’t be as much fun for him. Which makes me think maybe he should go first, so he’ll never have to know true pain. But I want my body shook, damnit! I don’t think that’s too much to ask. Besides, he’ll hear about it for eternity in the afterlife if he doesn’t, and I just don’t have the energy for that. Hence the reminders. I think this is an awesome act on my part to prevent that.

So, dibs for dying first, bitch.

Anyway… in case you’re curious, here’s a picture of our neighborhood cat, Sir Carlton.

Sir Carlton

Pensive, isn’t he? Look at those white old-man whiskers. It’s like he’s staring into your soul.  I hope not, since he’s been occupying a chair on our back porch for the last few nights and I really could do without some demon-possessed neighborhood cat.  Or even a good-possessed neighborhood cat (is that a thing?) I just don’t want him turning into a death eater and dragging me off to Azkaban because that would be a terrible way to start off the holidays.

21 days until Christmas!