I Have a Much Better Post Planned But I Can't Finish It What With My Currently Dying and All.

I have another post being finished up plus a guest poster to host but unfortunately you're getting this hot mess of a half-assed post due to the heart attack I'm currently experiencing.  It started last night after I ate a half gallon of Dairy Queen soft serve and I started having chest pains and my esophagus spasmed up and I knew then a myocardial infarction was in the works.  See how I even know the technical name?  The hubby was all, it's heartburn, dummy. Eat some Tums.  But I know better because I did work in a hospital for three years plus my sister works in a hospital plus I have regular doctor's appointments in which I always look through their drawers and cabinets and health magazines and Physician's Desk References while waiting plus I use Google for medical ailments every singe day so I'm telling you, it's a motherfucking heart attack.  He says I wouldn't be alternating between clutching my upper chest and saying OUCH and then belching so much but I disagree.  Heart attack pain can radiate to your shoulder and arms, and are often the result of your body punishing you for gorging your fat ass with ice cream.  It's like my heart is telling me no more Dairy Queen. Also, the belches are just my lungs' meager attempt to catch as much oxygen as they can before I die.  I'm not sure about the farting, but it's definitely related to internal systems already shutting down.

So when the heart attack finally succeeds in finishing me off this will be my very last post and the hubby will likely feel bad for not believing me.  He'll also be mortified that this blog is my legacy and he'll be all, of course her final words *would* contain motherfucker.  

I have some business to shore up here quick.

One, when the 2 ft tall metal chicken I just ordered on Ebay and named Orville Chickenbawker gets here, I bequeath him unto Marianna at Snappy Surprise.  She may not even know she wants him but she does.  Marianna, whenever you look at him, please think of me.  And share your cheese with him now and then.  Don't be such a cheese whore.
 
Two, I would like David Beckham to get my pillow and comforter because even though he doesn't know it yet, he'll miss me and the smell of me sleeping and calling out his name while I dream of him and drool on my pillow.

Three, I need to be buried in footie pajamas.  I'm not even joking.  Soft, footie pajamas.  Don't forget my headstone options.
 
Fourth, my Xanax prescription shall be split up among all of my followers so they can each have one to calm their panic and devastation at my demise.  No, screw that.  I'm taking that shit with me.

Last, my hubby can have the rest of the soft serve ice cream that I didn't finish before the heart attack struck. 

Farewell internets!  (unless I live.  That last belch was pretty awesome and I feel a bit better.  Then I'll see you in a couple days.)