Death and Other Super Chill Stuff

Hi. It’s me. Thinking about death again in a very practical, autistic way. Like: We’re all going to die. Everyone who has ever existed before us? Dead. Billions of people. All finished. We have no idea when or how it’s going to happen. It could be today.
Anyway, what’s for lunch?

This is apparently not how most people’s brains work.

As an autistic woman, I am extremely preoccupied with existential questions. Big ones. The unskippable ones. Death. Meaning. Time. The heat death of the universe. Whether I should start projects knowing full well entropy is undefeated. You know. Chill stuff.

I’ve learned that many cultures view death as a normal, integrated part of life, and I find that deeply soothing. Mexican culture, for example, fascinates me. Día de los Muertos isn’t about pretending people didn’t die—it’s about acknowledging that they did and then… hanging out about it. When I lived in Mexico I had a friend who would go dust off her great-grandmother’s bones at the crypt and “have lunch” with her on the Day of the Dead. ICONIC. Touching. 

The culture I was raised in, however, is more like:
Shhh. Don’t say the D-word. They’ve “passed.” They’re “in a better place.” We don’t know where, but it’s better. Probably. Let’s not think about it.  Here's a casserole.

I think about death all the time.

It’s not morbid. It’s just… factual. Death is the most predictable thing that will ever happen to us, and somehow we’re all pretending it’s a shocking plot twist. I don’t experience this as despair so much as ongoing background processing. Like my brain has a tab permanently open that says: REMINDER: TEMPORARY MEAT BODY.

My grandfather had a literal death album. An album. Of obituaries. Of people he knew. He would bring it out regularly and flip through it like a photo book from a vacation that everyone died on. Genetic autism, anyone?

I think this constant awareness of death is part of why I have such a strong je ne care pas attitude about doing unconventional things. You guys. I could die today. TODAY. Do you know how unmotivating that is when it comes to living a life you don’t even like?

If I don’t try the weird thing, start the project, say the honest thing, or follow the hyperfixation, I might die with the regret of not having done this. And that feels worse than failure. Failure at least means I tried before my atoms were redistributed.

This does not mean I don’t understand grief. I do. Loss is devastating. Losing someone you love hurts in a way that permanently rearranges you. I get why people are sad. I feel it too.

I just also have to physically restrain myself from saying things like:
“Well… we did know this was going to happen and now we know how and when.”

This is why I am not invited to speak at funerals.

So yes, I think about death constantly. It’s not because I’m pessimistic—it’s because I’m realistic. Death gives everything its urgency. Its texture. It's do it now or never energy. It’s one of the reason I make strange choices, follow obscure interests, and refuse to wait for permission to live.

And before anyone says it: this is not a YOLO thing. This is very important.
I am not motivated by “you only live once,” because honestly? I’m not convinced that’s true. I’m actually quite open to the idea that we don’t only live once. Reincarnation? Energy recycling? Consciousness doing a weird cosmic side quest? Sure. Could be. I don’t know. No one does.

But even if this isn’t my only round, this is this round. This particular body. This specific brain with its oddly strong opinions and niche interests. And I don’t want to waste this iteration waiting for permission, approval, or a socially acceptable timeline.

Anyway. That’s all for now.
Talk to you later. Or not. Who knows, I might be dead.