The Spectrum Obituaries

So, you’ve heard of obituaries. You know, those somber little death notices in the paper with dates and surviving nieces. But have you heard of The Spectrum Obituaries? No? Buckle up, friend, because we’re about to make death—wait for it—hilariously charming. Not creepy. Just weirdly delightful.

What in the World Is The Spectrum Obituaries?

Imagine if a eulogy were written by your funniest, most brutally honest friend after three glasses of wine. That’s the vibe. The Spectrum Obituaries is an online project (and book) that celebrates the lives of neurodivergent people—folks on the autism spectrum, with ADHD, or just a brain that runs on a different operating system.

But here’s the twist: these obituaries aren’t sad. They’re honest. They talk about the deceased’s obsession with trains, their inability to make eye contact during funerals, or the time they organized Grandma’s stamp collection by scent. It’s the opposite of “He was a kind soul who loved walks on the beach.” It’s “She hated the beach. Sand is a crime against humanity.”

And you know what? It’s glorious.

Why Obituaries? Isn’t That… Morbid?

Great question! Yes, it’s morbid in the way a black cat wearing a tiny witch hat is morbid—oddly adorable. See, traditional obituaries are like corporate press releases for souls. They sand off the weird edges. The Spectrum Obituaries polishes the weird edges until they sparkle like glitter on a coffin lid.

For example, one obituary might read: “Gerald, 47, died peacefully while reorganizing his spice rack by hex code. He leaves behind a husband, two cats, and a deeply unimpressed mailman.” It’s raw. It’s real. It’s hilariously specific. And it reminds us that every quirky habit is actually a love note to how our brains work.

Plus, let’s be honest—if you’re autistic or ADHD (like your humble author here), you’ve probably already planned your own funeral soundtrack and curated the playlist. This is just the next logical step.

The Golden Rule: No Toxic Positivity

You know how some obituaries say “She never complained about her illness” even though she definitely complained? The Spectrum Obituaries ban that nonsense. They allow for messiness. Did the deceased have a meltdown at a grocery store over the lighting? Great flavor text. Did they refuse to wear pants for the last six months of their life? Now that’s a legacy.

One obituary I read actually said: “He had a PhD in patience. Unfortunately, he majored in interrupting people. He died as he lived—mid-sentence.” I laughed so hard I snorted tea out my nose. That’s the goal. To laugh at the beautifully absurd truth of being human—especially a human who stims, hyperfocuses, and keeps a spreadsheet for grocery trips.

Ruben Lugo Obituary - The Spectrum and Daily News

Here’s the kicker: these obituaries aren’t just for dead people. Many are written by living folks, pre-writing their own send-off. It’s like a party invite for an event you won’t attend. Morbid? Yes. Empowering? Absolutely.

What’s the Big Lesson?

Okay, deep breath. This isn’t just about dead people’s weird hobbies. It’s about celebrating neurodivergent joy while it’s still happening. Think about it: How often do you hide your special interest because you fear judgment? How often do you mask your diaphragm-shaking laughter or your encyclopedic knowledge of 19th-century cheese molds? Stop that.

The Spectrum Obituaries whisper to us from the afterlife (or from a very good coffee table book): “You were weird. You were wonderful. And honestly? The weird part made you wonderful.” So if you have a habit of spinning in your office chair for 15 minutes straight before a meeting, that is your obituary material right there. Own it.

Let me give you a real example from the collection: “Mina spent her last day counting the exact number of tiles in the hospital ceiling. She got to 847 before they wheeled her down for her final X-ray. She was this close to beating the record. We’re all betting someone else will finish the count.”

See? That’s not depressing. That’s a love song to a brain that never stops computing.

How You Can Join the Fun

You don’t have to wait until you’re a hunk of dust beneath a headstone. Go write your own Spectrum Obituary today. Grab a notebook (or that notes app you’ve been ignoring). Start with: “In a world of small talk, I specialized in frog comparative anatomy.”

Ramona Larsen Obituary - The Spectrum and Daily News

Or: “I once cried because my toaster beeped out of rhythm. It was a Tuesday.” The more painfully specific, the better. This is your legacy, unedited. No apologies. No wishy-washy “He was a good listener.” Tell the truth: you listened, but you were also silently debating whether that person’s shirt was the exact shade of green from the 1997 Power Rangers movie. Important stuff.

If you’re feeling brave, share it with a friend. If they laugh, they’re your people. If they look uncomfortable, they probably aren’t neurodivergent—or they need a glass of wine, stat.

A Gentle, Goofy Send-Off

So here we are. We’ve talked about death, laughing mid-sentence, and the sacred art of spice-rack organization by hex code. The Spectrum Obituaries teach us that life is not a gentle glide into eternity. It’s a loud, fidgety, hyperfixated scramble full of inappropriate jokes, parallel parking meltdowns, and incredible knowledge about dinosaurs.

And when you go? Let them write your truth. Let them say you died while explaining the plot of a 1994 anime movie to a confused barista. Let them say you organized your spice rack by color, then by season, then by emotional resonance. That’s a life lived fully, friend.

So go live—not a perfect life, but a specific one. One with footnotes, tangents, and the occasional meltdown over mismatched socks. Because the ultimate punchline of The Spectrum Obituaries is this: You are already your own most interesting story. And the best part? You haven’t even finished writing it yet.

Now go do something gloriously weird. And maybe, just maybe, start counting those ceiling tiles. You never know who’s cheering you on from the beyond. 😉