'My Party Has Died of Dysentery And I Have Scribed My Epitaph in 8 Parts.'

Here lies Eli T. Drumm
or at least he would have lied here
had his last requests not included incinerating his expired body.
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Polymath, a true Renaissance Man of modern times,
aspirer, lover, philosopher until the end.
Surely the species has lost a fine asset!
-
Of course let's not get ahead of ourselves.
We all know Eli was an incredibly pretentious, judgmental bastard.
I mean, he wrote his own epitaph in third person.
How ridiculous can you get, y'know?
-
Unsure of himself, unsure of others, or of nature or God.
A life spent in the void of this uncertainty
coupled with a wicked sense of humour
and a good, solid, American, Christian upbringing
yielded the fellow you knew or did not know
and the fellow you see before you now, dead
(except he's not actually here, but we've been over this).
-
At this moment, he is either existing or not.
-
Brother, son, owner of his dog and cat.
Friend (often enigmatic but certainly well-intentioned),
lover (or at least he would have been if there existed such a thing
as a functioning, loving, emotional, intelligent, deep, abstract female,
and statistically there was/is though they never met).
-
Astronaut, extraterrestrial, meteorologist in every sense of the word.
-
My life was perfect.