Angry Puppet is at Death's Door

I'm dying, I think. My usually glossy and voluminous hair is falling out in clumps. I have developed a hacking cough. I feel like Mimi at the end of La Boheme. I always knew, though, that when Death came a-knocking at Angry Puppet's door it would be a somewhat theatrical affair. A fitting exit for what has been a very poetic life. At least I will leave a beautiful corpse.

In the event of my death, please grant me the following:

- A casket carved from a deep-sea coral bed, lined with silk woven by wild forest spiders (not low-grade spider-farm silk), lacquered with the blood of a thorough-bred stallion, then blessed with the tears of a newborn child;

- At the funeral, Gwyneth Paltrow sing her victorious cover of "Bette Davis Eyes" (I don't care who she duets with -- perhaps Brian Wilson if he is available?);

- Strictly no photos to be taken during the proceedings (the press will be circling like piranhas; and whilst I empathise with the Public's curiosity, I do not wish my death to be cheapened by the gossip magazines);

- I be cremated wearing my favourite Sunday morning kimono;

- That my ashes be cooked into a delicious Moroccan stew, and each funeral attendant eat a spoonful, and thus, shall carry a piece of Angry Puppet with them for eternity. I hear ashes are hard to digest. I'll be hangin' about your large intestine for a while; a long while. BTW, I have a great recipe for a spiced pumpkin and almond stew. With citrus cous-cous on the side. It's marvelous. I shall leave the recipe clipping in my bedside drawer.

That is it, I think. I shall leave it up to you, dear readership, to grant my dying wishes. My PR team will notify the press once I have "crossed over".

Much love.