Dear Diary,

Reid wants to be cremated and his ashes flushed down the toilet. I really do wish this was some dream I had after eating pizza late. At first, I thought he was just being “Adolescent Reid,” you know, the Reid that never wants to get his haircut, eat vegetables or change his clothes. (I’m not suggesting, by the way, that these are random examples that would qualify as “Adolescent Reid” behavior. I’m saying Reid does not want to get a haircut, eat vegetables or change his clothes on any given day of the week.)

   Don’t get me wrong, Diary. I love his boyish charm and his quirky tendencies. The days of the week he assigns to chicken, beef and red beans, as well as the times of day and evenings he assigns to reruns of The West Wing or Six Feet Under actually help me structure my day, even when that mirrors the life of, say, Rainman.

   It’s not that Reid is immature, either. If the word hadn’t already been taken by the natal field, I would define him as “pre-mature” – someone still capable of growing up to manhood but hoping not to.

But, rather than the shrines of his sports cathedrals, he wants to pay homage to the one invention in life that he values as much as – as he puts it – anesthesia and the remote control.

   So, at first, I figured this toilet fixation was another iteration of Adolescent Reid. But he’s dead serious, and what’s worse is that he has an actual thought-out rationale to justify it. He’s not being morosely cynical or darkly negative. Reid truly believes his life has been blessed (although he remains convinced he’s going to hell for that very reason). Likewise, he views his wish to have his ashes flushed down the toilet as an affirmation of his life.

   “You’ve said it yourself, Carol,” he told me in his defense, ” that I spend half my life in the bathroom.”

   He continued to explain that not only have some of his best ideas occurred on the “throne,” but that the closest calls in his life have involved a toilet and “only seconds to spare.” He insists that reaching the commode following a race filled with doubt and the abject fear of failing is one of the truly liberating and exhilarating experiences of life. Nothing would pay more honor to the way he lived his life, he says.

   He believes scattering his ashes over Wrigley Field or the Superdome in New Orleans is so played. But, rather than the shrines of his sports cathedrals, he wants to pay homage to the one invention in life that he values as much as – as he puts it – anesthesia and the remote control.

   Reid has it all figured out, too, down to the last details of the sound of the flush itself serving as some sort of “salute,” and the bowl refilling symbolizing the redemptive waters of the “The Circle of Life.”

   I’m not dwelling on this, Diary, except to state in no way do I plan to comply with this “last wish” of his. I mean, all of this assumes Reid will go first, which I most certainly don’t wish to happen. (He’s got a lifetime buddy who’s already volunteered to flush. Actually, several have come forward.)

   What frightens me more is that I’m beginning to understand what he’s getting at. After all, it was my father who told me that flushing my pet goldfish down the toilet was “a naval burial.”

   Have to stop now, Dear Diary. Nature calls.

   Oh. My. God.

Read the previous entry in Carol Madigan’s Diary HERE.