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I want my various organs (whatever's still useful, anyway) to be given to people who need transplants. With, if at all possible, the proviso that the organs go to people with a genuine disease that they can do anothing about. Not people who fucked up their bodies.
This is because George Best, a local footballer, had a liver transplant after drinking his first one to death. He then went out and drank the second to death- and got another transplant! Died before he left the hospital that time. There were people with genuine illness who could have used the transplants, and wouldn't have just destroyed them.
The bits that aren't good for other people can go to medical science so they can study whatever ill-effects are making those parts of my corpse useless for transplant.
The skin, I'd like either bound into a book or else tattooed, carefully flayed and varnished to be displayed as art somewhere.
If there are any bones left, I'd like them to be carved into jewellery and keepsakes for my friends and whichever family members aren't creeped out by it.
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The noblest sentiment I have encountered and the most passionate political statement to stir my heart both belong to a fictional character. Why do we have no politicians as pure in their intent and determinedly joyous in their outlook as Arkady Bogdanov of Red Mars?
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