Alex is going out of town this week. Thankfully that means I’ll have lots of extra space in our marital bed to store my weapons. Still, there’s always a chance I’ll be murdered and you guys know I’m a planner. I tried to start a dialogue with Alex about what he should do in the aftermath of my death, but he wasn’t here for it.
I just want to make sure you guys know I didn’t quit you. All I’m asking is for him to login to Facebook and post a quick farewell. Theoretically, he knows where to find my passwords. But realistically, he doesn’t know where to find anything.
Even my security questions are utter bullshit, based on weird associations that have no basis in reality.
Question: What was the model of your first car?
Answer: The ginger from Downton Abby
Thought Process: The first car I ever remember was some old green plymouth that had tatty upholstery, and I’d play with legos in it. Legos make me think of Honey I Shrunk the Kids, which makes me think of giant rabbits, which makes me think of Donny Darko, which makes me think of Jake Gyllenhaal, which makes me think of being drunk on Christmas 2009, which makes me think of snow, which makes me think of Jon, who knows nothing, and I’m still upset about Ygritte.
After five minutes of silence, Alex offered: “I’ll publish your book posthumously, like Go Set A Watchman, and I’ll make all the monies.”
I think I need a will. At last count, I have 11 nieces and nephews but there are others to consider:
1. My Old Boss At The Psych Ward: I’d like to pay for her to receive driving lessons, specifically regarding roundabouts.
2. The Guy Who Offered Ten Goats in Exchange For My Hand In Marriage: I think we should send him 10 goats, because feminism.
3. The Owners of The Hovel Where I Lived With Shleisel: Let’s send them a tutorial for how to be landlords, so future tenants don’t have to pay with cash at a dry cleaner and receive handwritten receipts from a spiral notebook.
4. All My Former Employers: Please donate my salaries back to them, because we all know I didn’t do shite to earn that money. Except for my asshole boss– please just send him links to everything I wrote about him.
5. My Ex’s Naked Photo: This will be time-released to the public, so buy one of those big banner ads in Time’s Square. Because being the bigger person is less fun when you’re dead.
Thanks for everything we’ve shared together. Make sure to burn my journals and drink IPA at my funeral. And just so we’re clear: I was probably murdered by a middle aged white man with a well-kempt goatee and exemplary church attendance.
Sorry this escalated so quickly.
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