Here is my Advance Health Care directive, for anyone who cares.

Should I happen to wind up in a Persistent Vegitative State (the kind NOT caused by television, mind you), I want the following: I wany any and all useful organs donated. I want to be cremated. I want my husband (or some other responsible member of this family) to spead my ashes somewhere in the mountains in New Mexico.

If my brain is dead, I do NOT want extreme measures used to keep me breathing. No life support. No feeding tube. If I can’t help myself to thirds of my mother-in-law’s new peas and potatos in cream sauce (mmmmm . . . ), there’s no point in going on. Unless there is REAL hope that I will someday SOON (soon like Henry and Charlie mean it, not soon like in the indefinite future after we get over this whole stem-cell-research-is-the-same-as-murder thing) hug my children, read a novel, or spin a new theory about why the Republicans hate Hillary Clinton so damn much, unplug me.

Should my wishes, for whatever reason, not jibe with the political agenda of any member of Congress who chooses to overlook the REAL problems in our world today in favor of dicking around in what is after all a PERSONAL matter, I wish the following: I would like to be put in the custody of Jeb Bush (or, really, any member of his extended family, except for Barbara and Jenna) and allowed to live out my days in Kennebunkeport. And just in case I have some brain function left that all the smart doctors and their wildly advanced machines can’t distinguish, I am saying now that while I persist in my vegitative state, waiting to recover, I want a really nice room, with furnishings exclusively from Pottery Barn, and I want a manicure and pedicure every week and a massage every three or four days. Paid for by Jeb. Forever.

Thank you, Internet, for witnessing this directive.