Dear Lavi Angel,

I’ve had back-to-back funerals so sorry for the delay in writing. It’s high time I threw my own funeral wake so here goes…

My desire is to serve vets, to commanda men (the cis-male johnson!), and to guide humanity to give NUDY. And to wear Italian underwear. That is not a typo. Underwear! Lingerie! A brazier for fawk’s sake! Not seen on me since my pit-bull rugby girlfriend days with GiGi circa 2003.

Commanda – also not a typo. Soldiers answer to the Commander in Chief, but Footies answer to unity. Unity is the heart. The heart is within, it’s Commanda. Pussy General of yore had all her stage play Footies going Commanda – what underwear?! – never commando because we emphasize the divine feminine in the mission. All Footies are Commandas yet until this latest funeral I couldn’t quite reach why.

Death has the ultimate advantage of a certain kind of finality. You and I believe in the infinite. To quote Prince on the afterlife that’s a mighty long time, but that formerly known artist, well, I don’t buy his througline. In this life, ARE we on our own? If we drop into the heart and…

There, next to a casket, I listened. Are we really alone? What am I fearing?

Shhhhhh, listen…..the answer yielded. (Christ, the chicken tits in me is afraid to be thrown out of the family for giving NUDY, please strengthen me. Ameyn.)

What on earth am I waiting for??! Go Commanda and go home! Drop D Footie! Kneel NUDY, drop into the heart, listen! The heart serves all. The heart is in you. Me, all of us! So, let’s serve Commanda. Serve the heart, serve each other – listen. With or without underwear who cares as long as we’re caring.

It was a blast wearing my white fishnet crotchless stockings and flossing with a lock of my bush hair back in the day. Oooh, those white-hot stage lights. The pussy is the quintessential black box theater! And even though I still spin around on my motorcycle stage chair, I’m done spinning my wheels.

I’m willing to die to this old self. Be a much better guide to fawk, to NUDY. A sex forgiveness mission doesn’t spring up on its own. Well, crotchless might spring something up. I hardly feel ready yet if I’m able, it doesn’t matter. Death is certain so let’s go. Give those Italian creamy white lace panties a go and let me die a thousand times from embarrassment until FAWK shines on my face with ecstasy and innocence of the Infinite.

I’ve gone Commanda so I know I want this.

Chicken tits, you got to go.