Nope. Turns out heaven is pretty flexible about the whole death thing. I’m allowed to visit whenever I want, because it’s conveniently located on my balcony.
I just sashay out and take a seat. No one asks to check my pulse. No one gives me a second look. I sit around in boxer shorts and a t-shirt and loiter to my heart’s content. My hair isn’t combed; I’m not always showered; I’m usually barefoot and I’ve never heard a complaint. Not one. If that isn’t paradise, what is?
Okay, sure, maybe Barnes and Noble. Maybe Starbucks. But they have dress codes.
See the feet? Those are mine on my latest visit to heaven. I was having coffee with Andrea Bocelli, if you must know. I played a little air cello, too, with none other than Yo-Yo Ma. And it was every bit the nirvana you’d imagine — warm and sunny, great music, non-judgmental. There is one letdown, however: heaven is a self-serve operation.
I was shocked. I expected a lady-in-waiting or an accommodating waiter, at the very least. But no, I had to fend for myself, so the food was terrible. The surroundings, happily, more than made up for the burnt toast and stale cereal. It was absolutely, positively blissful and I’m not overstating. The weather, the birds, the breeze, the panoramic view, even the quiet hum of traffic was a delight.
Now, I don’t know how I managed to stumble into this place, but I have and I plan on wearing out my welcome. They’ll have to carry me out of here feet first or in handcuffs. Either way, I’ll put up a helluva fight. Consider yourself warned.
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