“What song would you play at your funeral?”
I might as well gotten the Heimlich
the way the words flew out of my mouth:
“‘The Spiteful Chant’ by Kendrick Lamar.”
The dinner party guests cocked their heads in confusion, glancing up at crown-molded corners contemplating what the fuck I was talking about. There was a small smattering of chatter before there was a group consensus was that yeah, nah. They had no idea what I was talking about.
“Well, now you’ve got to play it!”
Before I had a chance to save an already dark dinner party question from turning into an inevitable evaluation of my inner, even darker psyche, the serene sounds of Henry Mancini’s “Lujon” were interrupted by the isolated brass of “The Spiteful Chant” seething from the speakers.
The table nodded along politely,
like the song might reveal itself as avant-garde jazz.
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