“Dunno, but something different. Maybe avant-garde. Or ancient. Or both.”

“Irish wakes are kinda cool. Mum wanted one, but they’re not legal.”

“Oh man, if the police came and busted my wake?” I roar. “That’d be wicked. Dammit, I want to be there to see it.”

Maybe I will be. Maybe my Irish wake can start while I’m still alive. And maybe my death and everything after doesn’t need to be tinged with shock and sorrow and suffering. A little planning can go a long way.

In a traditional Irish wake, the women of the community are supposed to come prepare the corpse. But with a living wake, I’ll bathe and dress myself, thanks. I’ll do my own makeup too, because if Mama gets near me with a makeup bag, I will look like a corpse. The person being waked is supposed to wear white. White is not my colour though, so I’ll wear black. A brand new, smokin’ hot little black dress and red hellion high heels.

Irish wakes are pot luck. But no egg, tuna, or lobster salad sandwiches will be allowed at mine. And no mystery squares or funeral hams. My buffet table will groan with the weight of all my favourites, from the days when I didn’t give a shit about factory-farmed meats and non-GMO organic kale and MSG hangovers and the mid-life spread: suicide spicy chicken wings, donair pizza, poutine, bacon-and-cheese-stuffed bacon-wrapped cheese balls. Deep fried. Dipped in butter. Foods that Stacey-Fortune-in-Toronto avoided because she was scared they’d kill her or make her chubby. But Dying-Crow-Fortune-in-Cape-Breton doesn’t give a fuck.

My throng of family, friends, and fans can expect an eclectic mix of my favourite music. Nothing sappy. It’s my party, and you won’t cry if I don’t want you to. Besides, it’s bad luck to start the keening too early. I’ll save the real tear-jerker tunes until the end, just before my wake transitions into the big sleep.

Once everyone is fed, libations in hand, the storytelling can begin. I want my life to flash before other people’s eyes, not just my own, so I’ll put my Viva Rica promotional video-­production skills to good use by making a mini-­documentary about my time on this Earth. A tribute. A testament to my life in all its knee-slapping, tongue-wagging, heartbreaking glory. I’ll record Mama telling the story of her eight-month-old baby pooping all over Peggy’s brand new sundress at the family barbecue. And how a mischievous ten-year-old Crow disguised sliced garlic as slivered almonds and slipped them into Peggy’s trail mix. Allie and Char will laugh their way through the tale of the night they pinned condoms — and a note with my address on it — to my underwear before we went out to the bars. And how both those things came in pretty damn handy that night. Maybe Willy Gimp can finally publicly reveal our years of clandestine teenage sexcapades. The old people will squirm. The young people will roar. And it will end with everybody talking about why they love me, and what they’ll miss most. I need to hear that while I still can.