he sat down one afternoon and wrote out detailed instructions for his funeral. It was a Saturday...I'd been out all day running errands and came home kind of tired and really just OVER people in general. So of course he sat me down to go over his instructions, and when I protested (because I was TIRED), he accused me of not being able to "face the inevitable". On the contrary...I'm grateful to know his final wishes but it would've been nice if he asked me first "hey, are you in the mood to talk about what I want when I die?".
His very detailed notes are stashed in a garishly pink folder that he got for cheap somewhere, and the "pink folder of death" as we jokingly call it is in an unlocked file cabinet in his room.
