I have decided that one can die from being tired. Physically tired, mentally tired, emotionally tired, tired of bullshit, tired of crappy reality TV (HELLO, Bachelor?), tired of lack of sunshine, tired of toddlers playing in the slobbery dog bowl, tired of cleaning up dog barf and hearing said dog barf, tired of snotty attitudes, tired of the same mess magically appearing milliseconds after you cleaned it up... Do I really need to go on? I didn't think so. Anyway, I figure that since it seems I'm sprouting new sparkly hair on my head every 30 seconds, I should probably write my will since I'll look 90 by this weekend.
So, without further adieu, The Last Will and Testament of Kelly Jo Rhoades:
I, Kelly Jo Rhoades, (yeah, my middle name is Jo, shut up) being of not even close to sound mind or healthy body, do declare the following should occur upon my passing from being fucking tired:
To my loving children: There are only about three things in this house that are worth anything. It might be best to call the guys from American Pickers (you know, since they have a store in Nashville now), and see what they'd be willing to give you. And NO, my Bon Jovi/Aerosmith/Poison/Journey CDs do NOT count as antiques.
To my darling husband: I hope you have a grand time spending my life insurance money. Please make sure my eptitaph reads: "Here lies Kelly, beloved wife and mother. She's saving seats for her friends." Also, please spend the money (read: hide it in an off shore island account) before Sallie Mae comes a'knockin'.
To my beloved dogs: Let's be real. I'm not a crazy pet person who leaves shit in their will to their pets, no matter how much they're loved.
To Sallie Mae/Direct Loans/Nelnet: I wish you good luck, motherfuckers! And no, I didn't fake my own death to get out of paying back my loans, although I have contemplated it. Just kidding. Maybe.
Electronically signed this 13th of March, 2012,