Wednesday morning pre-coffee thoughts on language

The speed at which words are going through connotative metamorphoses is becoming a bit disconcerting. Think of it: The meanings of words like "douchebag" and "hipster" have become something entirely different than they were only 2 years ago. They have also jumped cultural and linguistic hurdles that used to make it take several years for them to be acknowldged internationally. Thanks Internet!

Not So Famous Last Words

A good morning, afternoon, evening, night to you all.

Here's the deal:

I'm starting a project (blog? book? pamphlet? Only time will tell...) called Not So Famous Last Words and I need your input.

We all know what Oscar Wilde, Louisa M. Alcott, Jane Austen, Beethoven and company uttered as they shuffled off this mortal coil. History has been good to them. A little too good, in some cases... but I digress! Famous last words have always interested me because they can either define someone's time on Earth or somehow capture the human experience, from profundity to the absurd.

The thing that has always bothered me with this little obsession is that thousands of people die every day, apparently. In hospitals, on sidewalks, baseball fields and rooftop parties the world over... you name it... Why aren't their final words jotted down for posterity's sake?

My job, kids, projects and yardwork don't keep me busy enough, so I'd like to start a record of regular people's... (wait for it) Not So Famous Last Words. That's where you come in.

If you are so inclined, please use the comments section to tell me what your friends, family and acquaintances said in their final moments. Please include their name, location and date, if possible.

It may sound a bit morbid, I realise that. But I'm seeing it as a tribute to our loved ones because I'm certain that they can beat Caligula's "I am still alive!". What a prick...

Thanks for your attention, your help in this endeavour and any Gummy Bears you would like to leave in the tip jar on your way out.

Be good to each other,

Judes

The conversation presently running through my head, 10:53pm

Judes (blurry-eyed, clearly needs to sleep): Oh! Hey blog... What's up?

Blog stands silent, turns it shoulders slightly to the left and looks at the ceiling.

Judes: What? What's wrong?

Blog: What's WRONG? Did you really just ask me what was wrong?

Judes: Well, yeah... I...

Blog (angrily): How dare you! You completely ignore me for months and then you just stroll in here like Caligula taking a pee break and expect everything to be OK?

Judes: Actually, I imagine Caligula just peed right in the middle of..

Blog: SHUT THE FUCK UP! You are completely missing the point. Again.

Judes (reaches out to touch Blog's arm, who walks away quickly and rests on the vintage Ice Cream freezer in the corner): I'm sorry. I didn't think... I didn't know that it would upset you this much.

Blog: For God's sake Judes. How could it not? Don't you remember how it was at first? You loved talking to me. We spent hours together, looking at what kind of weird shit we could find on the Internet. You did, you know. You loved talking to me. And we used to laugh. We laughed so much... but now that's all gone. It's just smoke. There aren't even any mirrors. It's all just smoke now. All because of that little bitch.

Judes (defensive): Hey. Just a fucking minute. Twitter is not a bitch.Twitter isn't anything. Well OK, no. That's not true. It's a friend, Blog. It's just a friend.

Blog (scoffing): If I spent that much time with my friends, I would have fucking killed them all and eaten the bodies... and we wouldn't have even been in the goddamn Andes! It's not normal!

Judes tries to find a witty response. He adjusts his collar. He shifts his weight uncomfortably. His mind is clearly racing.

Blog: Well?

Judes' mouth opens. Dry.

Blog: WELL????!?!?!

The Ice Cream machine awakens with a loud thud. They both jump. Dust dances in the pools of light around them.

Nobody speaks.

Blog: Jesus Christ. You're trying to find a way to say this with exactly 140 characters aren't you?

Blog storms off stage. The dull hum of the vintage Ice Cream machine fills the room like a Brian Eno record that somebody forgot to turn over.

Judes walks off into the darkness, a barely-audible "Seventy-eight...Seventy-nine..." cuts through the hum. Cuts through the silence.