My Last Communication With Loser

The end of the year should appropriately end with the last communication I had with Loser.  It was just a few emails exchanged between us and it was clearly the end.

We had this beautiful bedroom furniture when we were married.  It was this elegant set..four poster mahogany king sized bed, dresser and mirror, chest of drawers, armoire, a sleep number mattress and the traditional bedside tables.  I had bought them with the money I made running EMS.  It was Losers’ favorite furniture.
It had been in storage since we sold the house in C********.  He got it out and crammed it into his condo.  Obviously, I was never going to use it again and he had been told he wouldn’t be “allowed” to use it so he said he thought he might sell it.
My youngest daughter had expressed an interest in it so I asked him to sell it to me.  He said he wouldn’t sell it to me but he would give it to me.  I was going to store it for her so I told him that I would let him know when I made arrangements to have it picked up.
I didn’t realize that our divorce had become final on July 27th because my attorney never bothered to pick up the final decree from the courthouse, otherwise I would have never emailed Loser about the furniture.

I had gotten the cute little note from “somebody” that Loser was taking his WTC to Denmark and Norway to see (and proudly introduce her to) his friends.  The note asked me if he had ever taken me (which of course, it was well known that he hadn’t) and went on to say they were going to have a wonderful time together.

I had been calling my attorney to ask about the divorce.  He was supposed to include the caveat that Loser had promised to return the furniture.  When I asked his paralegal if it had been done, she replied “he forgot.”
I decided to email Loser.  I started it out with “I hate to bother you while you’re overseas.”
It was clear that he was annoyed that I knew where they were so he decided to be a dick.  Like I cared.  I don’t know how many different ways I could tell him that I didn’t give a shit what he and that WTC did or where they went.

Before I asked about the furniture, I told him about the note.  He said “how do you keep getting this shit?”
I spelled it out this way…”while I was taking care of my end of our business, you know, dealing with the packers and movers…getting utilities turned off at the old house and getting them turned on at the new house (while you were probably at a bar with another woman) I discovered a marvelous thing.  I can’t tell you what decade it was established or even what century but it’s called ‘mail forwarding.’  Even if somebody doesn’t know where you are, if they have access to where you were (via the file cabinet in the condo of the man you’re shacking up with) all they have to do is send a letter there and it will be forwarded.”
I was surprised that with his D*** degree, he didn’t know about that.  With my lack of education, I must admit…it made me smile and feel a bit superior that I knew something he didn’t…but then again, he had never had to deal with mundane crap like that.  His “business partner” took care of it.
After I spelled that out, I asked him if he intended to keep his word about returning the furniture.  It was a stretch to hope that he would because he had rarely, if ever kept his word to me.
His response was almost audible.  He said “of course.  You decided that you wanted it so therefore, you shall have it.”
Needless to say, it pissed me the fuck off.

I immediately flashed back to the last time I saw him.  He pitifully told me that he was “pre-diabetic.”  I didn’t start wailing and jump up and put my arms around him while expressing concern, so I suffered his indignant scowling remarks.
I casually asked him if he talked to his WTC the same way he talked to me.  He shrugged and said “probably” (which meant…”Hell no, I would never talk to her that way because I have too much respect for her” and “she would never stand for it anyway.”)

I fired back an email that was to put it mildly, SCATHING and INSULTING.  I remain unapologetic.
I told him he could sell it, burn it or put it out on the curb for all I cared.  He also had an antique sewing machine that I would like to have had back but I told him that he could destroy that as well and said “you do know how to destroy things, don’t you?”
I asked him if he really thought I wanted the furniture we had shared.  I asked him what was wrong with him.  I told him he could tell N**** why she wouldn’t be getting the furniture.
I reminded him of one of his last emails to me which said “I dragged myself into a ditch and took you with me.”  I thought it was appropriate that I should tell him that he sure did and now I hoped he dragged himself straight to Hell and took HER with him.

I did reference his “shortcomings” when I said “aside from your money, you were inadequate in every conceivable aspect….including (I’ll let you fill in the blank.)  I didn’t care if it offended his manhood.
I was sick of letting him think that he was the Don Juan, cock-of-the-walk he always thought he was (and probably still thinks he is.)  I was sick of lying when people like my sister asked inappropriate questions about certain “body parts.”  For most of our so-called marriage, I had no idea about certain “things” because I hadn’t been around the block like Loser and his WTCs.
Maybe he satisfies his WTC and the other women he’s “had.”  Certain things can be overlooked I guess, if the raise is high enough, the promotion is prestigious enough, and the wallet is fat enough.  Money can buy a lot of things and ease a lot of disappointment.  It sure did for me.

He responded but I never opened the email.  I emailed him back and told him I didn’t read it and I would never read another email from him.

I was looking at the name associated with my email address when I hit send and I immediately changed it.  My name had been changed by “mommie dearest” so that it would match his.  Losers’ parents and brothers had always called him J****y so a “y” had to be added to my name.  I couldn’t spell two of my daughters’ names the way I wanted to because they had to end with a “y.”  Everybodys’ name had to end with a fucking “Y” so they would match Losers’ name.  Well….they were the children of “GOD.”

I spent my almost my entire life being married to a man who was constantly looking over my head for somebody who was holding a beer and would eagerly fuck a married man.  I should have included that statement in the letter I sent to him.  It was a good letter and spelled out in great detail what a monster he really is and left no doubt as to how I felt about him.  I know he kept it.  He read it a few times and then said he didn’t think he would read it again.

If I ever did send him another message, which I NEVER will, it would say…

Time passes.  If you ever acquire the ability to think about anybody besides yourself and your WTC and should wonder if my feelings toward you have changed…
READ MY FUCKING LETTER.

 

 

 

 

Black Eyed Peas And Greens

I had to go out today.  It was time to get a can of black-eyed peas and some greens for New Years’ Day.  It’s a tradition and I’m not sure if it’s Southern or common everywhere.  The peas represent coins and the greens represent dollars.  Can’t find those in Boost.
It was good to feel the sun on my face and the wind in my hair.  I was walking to my car and I thought, this is great….I can’t wait to get back home.  For some reason, I felt like my batteries were running down and I needed to make haste.

My home is where I spend most of my time…alone and protected.  When I got home, I turned on the radio and “As Tears Go By” was playing.  I have never been a true Rolling Stones fan (as Loser and two of my daughters are) but I liked some of their songs.
I did go to one of their concerts once but gave up my seat to a Dane, so he and Loser would have a good view.  I ended up behind a concrete post and the view was completely blocked.  Oh, well.  I was being the good wife.
I chose that song for E* and I to dance to at his and K****s’ wedding.  I don’t know why.  I guess it was prophetic.

When I venture out, it’s almost like I’m in overdrive.  I want to get whatever it is that needs to be done…done and get the Hell out of there.
There is such comfort in being in my house.  Nobody can see me and I can’t see anybody unless I look out the windows, which usually have the blinds closed.
I’m familiar enough to be able to walk around my house in the dark.  One of my neighbors commented once that my house was always so dark.  It is and I prefer it that way.  There are no lights on when I’m watching television.  There’s no need.  Isn’t the television a light?  There are no “night lights” or lamps on anywhere.

When it was the height of summer, I only turned on my air conditioner three times.  Maybe because I’m so thin, I don’t feel the heat like most people do but there’s a gnawing resistance that I can feel.
I will find myself shivering before it occurs to me to turn on the heat.  When I lived in A********, for months it rarely got out of the thirties but I kept the thermostat on fifty-five.  I didn’t want Loser to have to pay a big heating bill.  I lived in one room with some quilts hung over the doors and the rest wrapped around me.

When we lived in one of the hottest places in the country, Loser would never let me turn on the air conditioner in the car.  I never could understand that.  We had four children in the back of the van, roasting but he didn’t care.  Now that he’s old, he will actually run the air in his car.
Maybe all those years of living with him had such an impact that I can’t break free of what I was so accustomed to.
After I left him and was planning a trip to see my children, I was almost beside myself when I thought “wow.  I can actually stop and pee any time I want to now.”  He used to punish me by not stopping to let me pee and it may have very well damaged my kidneys.  I was also thinking, “I can run the air conditioner in my car any time I want to.”
I will say that it took me years to overcome all of his rules and some of them are still so ingrained in my psyche that I have to fight to get rid of them.

I don’t know why I have grown so accustomed to being a hermit but I clearly have.  The other day, I was checking my mail and my neighbor pulled up in her car and started chatting.  I found myself backing up slowly, with my door in sight.  I wanted to get back in my house…and I like this neighbor.

I don’t want to physically touch the world, I guess.  I blog and isn’t that subtlety touching the world… and isn’t that good enough?

A Great Song

I heard a song the other night called “This Is My Fight Song.”  How wonderful it would be if all the wounded, depressed, and forgotten people could embrace that song for the new year.
“This is my fight song…take back my life song…prove I’m alright song.”  Those lyrics could be the stimulus for standing up, flexing your muscles and letting out with a mighty roar.
They are such powerful words but I find they are only inspirational to me for the length of time it takes to type them.

I think there comes a time when it becomes obvious that there is no fight left.  There are things that are never going to be reconciled.  When that is a realization, there is a comfort in the surrender.  There is that familiar phrase..”accept the things I cannot change” but who does that really work for?
I have thought about trying to have a chat with my son about acceptance.  I have thought about trying to get him to understand and accept that he is never going to mean anything to Loser…that to Loser, he is always going to be just “a worthless piece of shit.”
My son has no fight in him.  He never has.  He’s still very much a little boy when it comes to needing the nurturing of the parent who was never there for him and never will be.
I think if my son could ever grasp that concept, he might be able to travel down a different road.  Nobody else in his life understands what it’s like to crave somebodys’ love and attention and spend your entire life being denied and disappointed more than I do.
If J***** could just see past the placation that Loser employs (for the sake of his WTC) maybe he could gather enough strength to look at Loser and say to him what Loser loves to say to everybody else…..”FUCK YOU.”
That song will not work for J*****.  How can he take back a life he was never able to live because he was waiting for a daddy to act like he gave a shit?  He can’t.
J***** will never accept the obvious.  He still has hope and he will eventually starve to death on that hope.

There is no fight left in me.  There is no acceptance.  There will always be the gnawing unanswered questions I have struggled for years, trying to understand.  How can all of my children can accept the treatment they have received from Loser and still welcome him into their lives?  How can they ignore the names he has called them?  How can they dismiss the way he treated them?  How can they so readily accept what he did to me?  How can they blame me for leaving after the way he treated me?  How can they be mad at me for not allowing Loser to bring that WTC to my house and think he was going to sleep with her in my bed?
How can they close their eyes to the fact that Loser destroyed our family, found a bar-hopping WTC and cheerfully moved on, while thinking he could still have me in his life?
How can I take back a life that was completely destroyed by lies, deceit, disease and neglect?  I can’t.

“This is my fight song” is a great song.  It’s just not great for me or my son.

 

Pearl

One of the bloggers I follow (learningtolivelikewater) talks about her pendulums.  I had been thinking about getting one for a while but a thought was as far as it went.
After reading her post one day, I bit the bullet and ordered one.
I did the research on the internet on how to use them and cleanse them and “train” them.  I was anxious and curious but also had more than a little trepidation.  I didn’t want to think I was getting involved with some sort of voodoo but I confess that there are times when I wish I knew a powerful voodoo high-priestess.
It was suggested that you name your pendulum.  There was no specificity as to whether it should be masculine or feminine.  The name Pearl sprouted into my mind.  She is amethyst and I had a little box that was made of turtle shell and lined with purple velvet.  I thought that would be a good home for her.
I did as directed and asked two simple questions to see what the “yes” and “no” answers were.  The first question was “am I a woman?”  Hmm.  Pearl just hung there like a limp noodle.  (Maybe I should have opted for a mans’ name.)
I’m pretty sure that I am indeed a woman but considering my childhood…who knows?  Maybe some secret amputation happened that I don’t remember…although I have naturally birthed four children.
I worked and worked with Pearl and I think I finally woke her up.
I believe Pearl goes back and forth for yes and in a circle for no.
I continued my questions by asking if I would be alone next Christmas.  Alas.  Pearl said yes.  No surprise there.
Suddenly, I couldn’t think of any questions to ask.  I considered asking about my son but I was afraid of the answer.  I did chuckle as I asked her if Loser and I were soulmates.  A nice little circle started to form and became pretty consistent.  No surprise there, either.
Then just to confirm, I asked her if I still had any love for Loser.  I was waiting for objects to start flying around the room and windows to start blowing out when Pearl started whirling around like a tornado.  I don’t think there’s much room for doubt with that answer.
After several more attempts to have Pearl answer questions, it became crystal clear that Pearl doesn’t have any idea.  She is either all over the page or continues her lifeless dangle.
I’m not sure if you rest one elbow on a table (as one youtube site suggests) or if you just hold it out in front of you (as another youtube site suggests.)
I think it’s also pretty clear that I am obviously not in touch with my Chakras, whatever those are.
Pearl will shimmy and then just barely swing back and forth.  I considered that maybe she doesn’t like her name.  I asked her if she did and got the same “don’t bother me now…I’m sleeping” response.
I guess I’m not the pendulum kind of gal.  Maybe I am so shut off that not even a gemstone can break through.  I’ll just keep her in her little box and wait for life to take it’s own course.  I’ll continue to wonder and mull things over in my mind and I won’t ask Pearl any more questions.  It’s pretty bad when you feel like even a pendulum has deserted you.
The story of my fucking life.

The Morning After

Yesterday, I got up at the butt crack of dawn, as usual.  I read the newest posts of the bloggers I follow and then posted my own.  I went outside and as it has been for the last several days, it was unseasonably warm.  It was almost apocalyptic warm.  If I was celebrating Christmas, I would have been so disappointed.
I got dressed and drove for an hour to a church to serve food to the homeless.  There were plenty of us there and there were plenty of homeless people as well.  It had been poorly organized which resulted in several volunteers standing around, wondering what to do.  Some of them were clearly confused and disgusted, so they left.

A few of the other volunteers (men) tried to strike up a conversation with me….”I like your necklace….where do you go to church”….blah, blah, blah.  One of them asked me where I was from.  I just wasn’t in the mood to answer a bunch of gratuitous questions from strangers.  I’m sure they were just trying to be nice and I was polite but evasive.  I was there to serve food, not socialize.

There were people showing up who still had quite a few of their teeth, others who had some of their teeth and a few who had no teeth.  Some of them were painfully thin.  They all offered a “Merry Christmas” and humbly accepted the food.  I found myself looking for my son and wondering how many soup kitchens had opened their doors to him.
We served ham, green beans, macaroni and cheese, cranberry sauce and a roll.  There were sodas and water and lots of tiny pieces of cake.

I looked around at the tables that had been set up in the gymnasium.  There were single people at tables and there were families.  Families.  I admit, it was hard for me to see the families sitting all together at a table.  There was the mama and the daddy and the children.
I remember when I had a family…when my children were little ones and before I found out that Loser (not my son) was a worthless piece of shit.
One little girl was holding a Barbie doll.  It was her only gift from Santa but she didn’t seem to mind.
I watched these people scarf down that food like they hadn’t eaten in days.  Some of them may have thought that it would be the last meal they had for a while.

There were husbands and wives working together, serving food and chatting like Loser and I should have.  I know they say you should surround yourself with shiny, happy people but I really must be going insane.  They make me sick.  I don’t like to be around them and one of the first things that comes to my mind is “I wonder how many times he has cheated on her…and I wonder if she knows.”  I wonder how many of those women have an incurable disease that was given to them by their husbands.  I know it’s not my problem but that’s where my head is.

We got them all fed and gave some of them “to go” containers for later.
I didn’t come away feeling like I had contributed much.  I didn’t come away feeling good.  I came away feeling so sad that it was difficult for me to drive the hour without feeling like I wanted to break down.

I was wondering if my children were having a good time.  I was hoping they were.  I was hoping they and their children would have a wonderful Christmas.
I imagine Loser and his WTC made the short drive to his drunken mamas’ house.  His brother and sister-in-law were probably there and they were most certainly having the most marvelous time.  I imagine Loser had to buy his WTC a pretty decent present to assure her continued companionship.

After I left, I stopped at a service station to get some gas and decided to go inside and look for a snack.  Their “honey buns” were on sale…three for a dollar.  I got three of them and a bag of Sara Lee powdered doughnuts.  I thought I might go home and make a cup of coffee and have a “dunkin’ doughnut” party.  I didn’t but I’ve always heard that it’s the thought that counts.

I had quite a drive ahead of me and I took my time.  I think I was the only car on the road.
On the way back, I had to drive through some rural neighborhoods.  I passed rundown houses that seemed to be crying because they were falling down from lack of attention.  I passed businesses that had died a slow, painful death after its customers had defected to a large box store.
That kind of scenery always bothers me.  I try to imagine who lived in those houses and who used to run those businesses.  I would have at one time, thought I was being nostalgic.  I thought nostalgia meant wistful.
I don’t think I ever realized that the definition of nostalgia is “pain from an old wound.”  Stupid me, I guess I should have gone to college like Losers’ WTC.

I didn’t send any gifts, or cards containing money to my children or grandchildren.  I figure Loser and his WTC gave gifts and money…his WTC because she wants and needs (and wants them) to feel like “they belong to her now, too” and Loser because he needs to try to impress his WTC by acting like he actually cares about his children and grandchildren.

Christmas is over now and I made it through.  I have a whole year to get ready for the next one which I imagine will be pretty much like this one.
I feel like my friend “the lonely author” who writes wonderful poems and stories…not because anything I write could compare with his renderings but because I’m here…alone.  If you don’t already follow his blog, it’s certainly worth a gander.

Am I sad?  Yes, I am incredibly sad but as Scarlett said “after all…tomorrow is another day.”

Today Is Christmas…But For Me, It’s Just Another Day

Today is Christmas.  It’s the day that I spent almost my entire life anxiously waiting for.  It was always such a magical day for me and I looked forward to it with unbridled eagerness.
In the past, there had been lean ones and there had been bountiful ones.  There had been joyful ones and there had been sorrowful ones.  There had been ones that were gleefully anticipated and there had been ones that were woefully dreaded.  There had been passionate ones and there had been emotionless ones.
Today, though…is just another day.

There will never be another Christmas when I am awakened by my four children standing at the bedroom door, shouting “Merry Christmas.”  There will never be another Christmas when Loser and I will have our first cup of coffee in the set of over-sized Royal Daulton china cups, that were reserved for that holiday only.

This year, I am alone.  It’s not the first Christmas that I have spent alone and I don’t imagine that it will be the last.
Today, though…is just another day.

There will be no stockings filled with chocolate covered marshmallow Santa Clauses and other tooth-rotting, blood-sugar-raising candy.  There will be no family gatherings.  There will be no feast.  There will be no visits from friends.  There will be no visits from children or grandchildren.
Today…is just another day.

There will be no “A Christmas Story” marathon playing on the television.  There will be no hugs and thank-yous’, whether genuine or insincere.  There will be no afterglow while sitting around, ogling the slew of presents.  There will be no decision on who gathers up the rumpled and torn wrapping paper and throws it away.
I will be wearing no new baubles, whether given from guilt or obligation.  There will be no specialty quilts given to anybody.
Today…is just another day.

There will be no disingenuous, hurried goodbye kiss from Loser as he leaves me to go play golf or travel across town to spend the rest of the day with his precious fucking mama and daddy.  There will be no impatient waiting until “It’s A Wonderful Life” comes on later.
I will not proudly display the pillow that I embroidered with the saying “the bell still rings for me” because it no longer rings for me.  I will not be covered up with the Christmas quilt that K**** made.
I will not have crept into the living room after everybody else had gone to sleep, to sit and watch the lights on the tree as if to try to burn it into my memory long enough for it to last until the next year.  I will not have imagined that I could hear the bells on Santas’ sleigh.
Today…is just another day.

There will be no hand-holding with Loser tonight as we quiz each other about the pleasure our gifts brought to each other.  There will be no conjecture about whether the children liked their gifts and got everything they wanted.

This year, there will be no empty “Merry Christmas” text or phone call from Loser.  There will be no texts or calls from my children.  There will be no refusal to visit or bring children to my house “because I didn’t bother to decorate.”
Today…is just another day.

There will be no need to worry about putting large boxes that housed giant flat-screen televisions on the curb for fear somebody will break into the house.  There will be no spending days and days, disassembling huge trees and carefully packing up treasured ornaments all by myself as I had always had to do before.  There will be no need to feel nostalgic when putting away pictures of grandchildrens’ first encounter with Santa Clause.  There will be no searching for delinquent strands of tinsel that have flown away and found what they think is a safe hiding place.
Today…is just another day.

There will be no left-over Christmas cookies or fruitcake or pot roast.  There will be no frantic hunt for all of those wonderful after Christmas sales.  There will be no “seasonal depression” that always afflicted me for the first few weeks after Christmas.

Today is Christmas…but for me, it’s just another day.

 

What I Would Do If I Knew I Was Dying

If I knew I was dying, I would make sure that my affairs were in order.  I would do that mainly for K****, who was so outraged when I left because she would have to “travel” to “go through my things.”  I would also do it for Loser, who is beside himself with fear that HIS MONEY will be “flying around out there in cyber-space” if something happens to me. (When he said that, he was probably thinking about how many trips he could take his WTC on or how much jewelry he could buy for her with that money.)
I might sell some things.  I might donate some things.  I would toy with the idea of spending every penny I have.
I wouldn’t plan a funeral.  I don’t want one.  I wouldn’t plan a wake or a party.  I don’t want either one of those.
I would never ask anybody to try to come up with elaborate, falsified descriptions of “what a wonderful person” I was and try to sell it to a group of uninterested, non-caring people.
I wouldn’t seek out people who I believed that I had wronged.  If I have wronged anybody, it was unintentional.  A few of my children may think I have wronged them by “falling into a ditch.”  That is not an apology inciting action.
I would absolutely be tempted to exact revenge on those who have wronged me in the past.  Whether it would actually come to fruition, I don’t know.  I do know that I would never forgive them.
I would want to reach out to Loser, right after Hell freezes over and Lucifer once again, becomes an angel.
I would never allow people back into my life who had abused and betrayed me.
I would not reach out to estranged members of my family.  Family members who care, don’t taunt you when they are suddenly part of the family that is no longer yours.  Family members who only contact you when they are desperate for money do not care about you.  They only care about themselves but they would come crawling out from under the woodwork and suddenly develop “compassion and caring” if they thought there was something in it for them.
I would absolutely become a wannabe philanthropist but I would do it anonymously.  I care nothing about having a plaque bearing my name.
I would not opt for invasive, cell-killing treatment.  I wouldn’t waste my money on drugs that would provide only temporary relief.
I wouldn’t give up my vices even though I have very few.  I might be tempted to smoke a pot joint.  That had always been on my “bucket list.”  If it was still illegal, I probably wouldn’t.
I’ve never been interested enough in recreational drugs to even give them a second thought, much less a try.
The endless conversations in my head have never ceased and I doubt they ever will, so the answer to that question is a definite yes.
I would never beg anybody to “remember me.”  Unimportant people are easily forgotten.  I would never ask anybody to keep a promise.  Promises are made to be broken.
I’m not sure I could define the term “live like you were dying” so the answer would be arbitrary until the definition was clear.
I would absolutely resent dying because I do feel like I have never really lived.
If there was any conceivable way to do, go and see things that have always been a dream, I would try, even if I had to hire somebody to go with me.
I probably wouldn’t test my car although I know for a fact that it will flat spit and git it.”
I would not feel compelled whatsoever to go to church.  I don’t know if I would confess all of my sins.  I’m not sure I could even remember all of them.
I would never curse God although sometimes, I think He has cursed me.
I believe there is not a snowballs’ chance in Hell that I will ever see the pearly gates of Heaven.  I believe Hell looms large and the only comfort I have is hoping that I will see certain people there.
Who knows about the stages of death?  I went (and am still going through) the stages of grief.  The order is all fucked up, so I imagine the stages of death would be too.
It would be lovely to know that when I go to the great beyond, I would be taking an eternal love that not only did I know but that I FELT.  I won’t have to worry about that.
I’m not a suicide person.  I would never die in a hospital if I had the choice.  I would never choose to die in a facility.  I wouldn’t want to die in my home or anybody elses’.
I used to think that when I died, I wanted to die in the arms of somebody who really loved me.  That’s not going to happen, so there will be no holding my hand at the end.
I would want to and I plan to die alone.  Death is sorrowful…why share it?  Life and happiness should be shared.
I would opt for cremation.  Set me on fire and then put me out.  I would like for my ashes to be spread on top of my grandma and grandpas’ graves but I can’t fathom anybody being willing to make the trip to do that so I would just say, throw me out with the garbage.
Nobody will have any of my ashes.  Nobody will be carrying me around in their cars’ trunk.
I have no desire to be “planted” anywhere.  I want no marker.  There is zero possibility that Losers’ name would be ANYWHERE near mine and I would curse anybody who dared to do it.
Having no grave or marker, it would be impossible for anybody to come visit and bring the obligatory flowers and no….it wouldn’t matter if they did…I’d be dead.  I would have preferred a visit and flowers when I was alive.
The first question asked will be the last answered.

No.  I wouldn’t tell anybody.  I would sever all ties with everybody.  I cannot and would not tolerate perfunctory shows of imitation affection and worthless epitaphs.  I have no need for gratuitous words to be etched into a piece of marble and placed in what is supposed to be a “final resting place.”

The only thing that needs to even be said is…once I was here.