[ WP ] A few years into their eternal sentence , a film critic offers their review of heaven or hell .

The best part so far has been the surprise. I nearly had a second heart attack, minus the greasy jumbo pizza that started this whole mess. When a distinguished angel ( it was either Michael or Gabriel, they look much alike, by the way ) greets you with a cheerful if slightly vacant smile, and hands you an illustrated guide to the afterlife, you take a second to digest the information. Despite the assured opinions of the many eloquent individuals who wrote letters to me on Earth, I'm not currently getting a look at the colour of my intestines because some demon felt creative. 
 
 In fact, I'm reclining on a bit of field. It's become something of a routine. Pick your bit of field, and get comfortable. This is partly why my surprise did n't last long. Surprises generally do n't, but mine faded faster than my excitement over the fact that 50 Shades of Grey did, in fact, become the highest grossing film of 2015. Because you see, one bit of field looks a lot like the one next to it. And that has been my primary activity over the last five years: lying on green fields that are generally bare. 
 
 The excitement of the week comes when I spot a flower, thriving heroically in a neighborhood dominated by neatly trimmed grass. Rumors abound of the exotic and provocative flowers growing on a bit of field somewhere in the North, if you'd care to walk a quarter of a century in that direction. Red *and* yellow ones, can you imagine? I thought I'd submit this review despite my keen anticipation of said flowers. 
 
 After a while, the view warps into one giant green blur, dotted here and there by someone playing a harp. I received mine, of course. It was off key, not surprising since it has been here since Jesus went downstairs. There are no introductory lessons, but nobody has complained of my endless renditions of `` I'm Gon na Be ( 500 Miles )'', despite my own loathing of my performance. 
 
 They never mention the little fact that the first song you pick, is the one you are eternally stuck with. Have you ever tried making your favorite song your ringtone? It's a teensy bit worse than that, because somehow your fingers are compelled to keep playing. Someone, somewhere, thought everyone would think this a delightful idea. And exactly zero heavenly residents have taken issue with the decision. Including me. 
 
 Because that's the beauty of heaven: no conflict. Although you have freedom of thought, freedom of speech is quite literally impossible. A dissenting opinion, a hint of sarcasm, a declaration of your intent to bludgeon someone to death with their own harp in their sleep - it all fizzles away to nothing in your throat. All you're left with is a slightly vacant smile and the vague impression that you kind of wanted to say something. If I ever find Gabriel/Michael again, I intend to offer my sincere condolences. 
 
 But here's the thing. Up here, you can write down your complaints. You can hand it to an angel, who will pass it along the daisy chain all the way to God ( I've never clapped an eye on him - but I'm told he cultivates the most thrilling flowers in the realm ). Based on what you write, you can stay here, or you get a look behind door number two. 
 
 I rather suspect `` door number two'' ( euphemisms are a popular way to evade the pesky words-fade-in-the-mouth dilemma ) will be Hell, and not Heaven 2.0 featuring guitars and greasy pizzas 
. But at this point, seeing the colour of my insides sounds like the cinematic equivalent of watching Fight Club after an episode of the Teletubbies. 
 
 I look forward to writing my next review in approximately five years, if the writing tools and a few minute's relief from torture will be available. 
 
 
 

