"Nothing is worth more than laughter. It is strength to laugh and to abandon oneself, to be light. Tragedy is the most ridiculous thing."

- Frida Kahlo

When I was 18 years old, I had a rough time of it. In September, my grandmother died. In November, my father died. In January, my grandfather died. The months in between were also genuinely less than stellar.

At the end of the third funeral, my mother, sister and I climbed into our third black limousine in front of the big, beautiful cathedral I'd grown up singing in but would now forevermore associate with loss. We clamored into our seats in that hunched, awkward way you do in limos, then looked quietly forward while we waited for the driver to start the engine.

I turned to my sister's sad face, noticed my mom's exhausted eyes. Outside it was an overcast, frigid morning. This whole situation was near-cartoonishly depressing, so I figured, what the hell.

"Well, hey now. Three times in the limo, never in the hearse, am I right?" I chortled, and theatrically elbowed my mom right in the ribcage. For a second I got nervous that I'd crossed a line, but then she sort of deflated and laughed a little, and then my sister kind of snorted, and I felt all that terrible pressure lift off my body for just a few blessed, light seconds.

Tragedy really is the most ridiculous thing. I swear, whether I die in some horrific accident tomorrow or snug under some blankets when I'm 96 and gray and fulfilled, if anyone gets all moony and weepy over me at my funeral I'm going to find a way to haunt the everliving crap out of them, and I will giggle with real delight at every goddamn minute of their big-eyed fright.

I mean, really now. If you can't find a way to laugh at a funeral, we should not be friends. Taking yourself, or death, too seriously is the quickest way to self-implode.

It's also just really, really boring.

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