Graveyard of Prized Possessions
Rest in Peace, Tanning Bed
By Sunny Brous
Dearly beloved, we gather here today to mourn the passing of Sunny’s tanning bed obsession. She was consistent in her devotion to perfecting the most even, deep, and bronzed tan turning like a rotisserie chicken to ensure that no skin was missed by the bright tanning bed lights - 20 delicious minutes of sweaty, naked, alone time with the music up loud and completely unreachable from the outside world.
Due to the continual progression of ALS, safely breathing while laying flat, inability to get undressed or dressed by alone, and not being able to get up from a tanning bed without assistance are just a few reasons why we are saying goodbye to Sunny’s favorite pastime. The greatest loss is having to be always accessible to others because people stress if the phone goes unanswered.
Sunny remains relentless in her pursuit of keeping tan, but it’s localized to the tops of her feet, knees, and forearms. She appreciates your loving support through this most trying time.
Yours in unfortunate tan lines.
Rest in Peace, Fresh Air at a Party
By Kate Nycz
RIP to a life once vertical, breezy, and beautifully unremarkable.
With deep nostrils and heavier hearts, we mourn the loss of Fresh Air — once a casual companion at cocktail hours and parties, now replaced by a persistent mix of sulfur, crotch musk, and wheelchair seat cushion despair. Gone are the days of effortless mingling and standing tall with a drink in hand, ready to launch into an entertaining story at any moment.
Now, storytelling begins with a neck cramp, a voice amplifier, and a prayer that no one will interrupt us long enough to let us steal the spotlight (as we’ve always deserved).
We say goodbye to spontaneous entrances. Instead, we find new paths via ramps, detours, and backdoor logistics, arriving late but in dramatic fashion. Gone is the gentle “excuse me” tap as we glide through the crowd. Now we seek a horn that could summon Moses himself to part the people and make way for our motorized majesty.
Let it be known: the party hasn't left — it just rolls now. Slower, maybe. Louder, definitely. Still funny as hell? You bet your ass.
Rest in party, Fresh Air.
We roll on.
Rest in Peace, Vibrator
By HAS Sister
In the five years that my vibrator lived, he was so many things to so many parts of my body. He serviced my nipples, my vagina, and on some adventurous occasions, my ass. My vibrator truly had a heart of gold. He always looked out for me, lending me a dick, or set of fingers for my clit. My vibrator wasn’t just present; my vibrator was fully present 100% of the time it was in my hand. My vibrator didn’t just live for the happiness of humanity but for the happiness of me.
Rest in Peace, Jeepy
By Shelly Stellato
2017- 2023
It's with deep sorrow that I announce the passing of Jeepy, a white and black Jeep Compass Limited. She was a compact SUV with black leather interior and a giant sun roof. She served as an oasis during long traffic-filled commutes, happily delivering podcasts, music or gossipy phone conversations to pass the time. Jeepy enjoyed breaking the speed limit when appropriate and always received regular maintenance. Jeepy was loved for her remote start and heated seats and steering wheel that made chilly mornings more bearable. While most of her time was spent cruising New Jersey roads, she enjoyed occasional road trips. She visited the Adirondacks, the Hamptons, Maine, Rhone Island, and Vermont in her rather brief existence of six years. A life cut short when I lost the ability to drive due to ALS.
First, her adventures became scarce and in her later moments, my husband sat in her driver's seat, which wasn't as fun and riddled with wrong turns. Her elevated seating made transfers from my wheelchair tricky. A delicate scoop required for a successful landing into the passenger seat. Jeepy's spacious trunk came in handy for storing a foldable power wheelchair. Ultimately, she was no match for the 400 pound wheelchair that I now rely on.
She's survived by a Toyota Sienna wheelchair accessible van that is not nearly as cute and lacks modern technology. Jeepy will be forever remembered as my favorite car after a long line of shitty, borderline unsafe, undoubtedly outdated vehicles. She was a symbol of my financial independence and a start of a more adult chapter of my life. Well, except for that time my friend puked all over her exterior due to a raging hangover. But Jeepy rinsed off like a champ and drove straight to a football tailgate at Metlife Stadium. Now, I'm a forever passenger longing for the freedom of being behind the wheel.
Rest in Peace, Peanut Butter
By Sam Telgkamp
P.B. Nutbutter
April 1999-April 2023
The Spread that stuck with me through it all.
P.B. passed peacefully with a savory goodbye in my bite of his favorite and most memorable forms—a Reese's P.B. Egg. P.B. was a beloved staple in my pantry that frequently brought joy, comfort, and nostalgia in each moment we shared; however, his sticky loyalty that left his taste lingering in my mouth posed a threat to my weakened tongue and airway, causing us to part forever.
Known for his versatility, he was a part of my life in many forms. From the sloppy squished classic P.B. & J sandwich that greeted me with goodness at lunch through the years, sometimes substituted with honey or marshmallow fluff for special occasions. He joined the family every holiday in the form of cookies and candies that the holidays simply feel different now. In college and other emotional times, P.B. was the most reliable friend. We snuck spoonfuls at midnight or drowned our sorrows with frozen Oreos dipped in his smooth hugs. He was beside me every morning in a layer on my toast topped with banana or in my overnight oats starting my day with a smile. P.B. held a seat at most campfires as a butt of all the dad jokes and the tranquilizer of sending someone to sleep early. And I treasure most, sharing his love with my dog. P.B. is survived by the memories and the times we had. His dream is to be celebrated in kitchens everywhere. Please, in lieu of flowers, donate to a local pantry or share him with someone you love. Love you, P.B. Nutbutter!!
Rest in Peace, Hardcopy Books
By Laura McNew
You were my first love. Even before my first crush at 5 (Luke Skywalker, gag) I knew I loved you. I cannot remember a life before you; you were as integral to my world as air.
Everyone I cared for loved you too. I spent countless nights lying awake with you, only to be found curled up around you by morning. You took me everywhere, and I did the same for you–sometimes getting in trouble for hanging out with you rather than paying attention or doing chores. You helped me travel to places I didn’t know existed and gave me friends I didn't know I needed. Our relationship made me walk a mile in a million different people's shoes.
I loved you so much, I spent most of my career bringing you to children. Even after I had to quit teaching, I dedicated another year to your preservation, loving, caring for, and cleaning you, encouraging you into the hands of others.
Three years ago , I intended to fill a whole room with you. Then the disease took hold, and now your sanctuary is instead full of coats, hats, shoes, half finished crafts, and boxes awaiting a trip to goodwill.
Never again will I crack you open, caress you, or lift you to take in your scent; I don't even possess the strength required to lift a bedsheet.
Begrudgingly, I've come to terms with embracing your cousin, the ebook. She's not you, but she'll do. Goodbye dearest, may many more love you as I have.
Rest in Peace, Cigarettes
By Angelina Fanous
My favorite treat, my mental health break, the best companion to morning caffeine and evening libations, my cigarettes are no longer with me. I vividly remember my last one, my particular choice of tobacco—a Marlboro called Blend 27, a flavorful burn yet their obscurity deterred bummers.
Six months into my diagnosis and I still hadn't given up on my beloved, secretly hoping to suffocate my lungs before the rest of my body betrayed me. I wanted to gag it before it buried me alive. I'm Middle Eastern, abiding by an eye for an eye.
On an oppressively sunny LA day, halfway into my morning cigarette, it wasn't my lungs choking but my legs that choked. It felt like some of the muscle fibers in my thighs vanished and the remainder struggled to carry my body. My knees slightly buckled during my usual pacing. It was the first time I felt weakness in my legs, and I knew what I had to do. I dropped the rest of my cigarette on the ground, smothering it with my boot.
Thank you for all the times I sobbed my problems into you or celebrated with you, the times you helped me spark with a stranger outside a bar, meditate on a problem, or simply evade work. You quelled my anxiety and satiated my oral fixation. You eased my stress from the sound of spanking your bottom to pack your tobacco to unwrapping the cellophane around your neck to firing up my lighter before pursing my lips around your tip and inhaling you deeply, a habit during our first embrace.
I still fiend for you—not just when I'm envying smokers and their elevated dopamine levels, but also in this reoccurring dream I have. I reach down inside the pocket where I used to tuck you in my purse, pull out a loosie, but can never seem to find a lighter.