Give my money to our children and my debt to our least favorite relatives – you know who they are. Don’t fall for the vultures that circle over my corpse hoping for pounds of flesh – honestly, don’t let the dogs get too close either, because they’ll take off with a finger and I’m already running low on those.
Don’t honor my life by asking for likes and follows on my now defunct social media; this should go without saying, but modern problems require specific modern language. You’re welcome to sell my writing, though, if you can, but, cherish it, because those are my last words.
Donate the parts of my body that can be donated. There’s nothing wrong with second hand. Get it? That was funny. I know you smiled.
But seriously, in the end, have a party. Dress casual – hoodies and leggings preferred, if I’m inconsiderate enough to die during the cold months, during your busy season – and wear bright colors. Teal blue is my favorite on you. Bring the dogs to the funeral. All the dogs are welcome, even the ones I’ve never met.
Don’t worry about makeup; I’ll probably look dead tired anyway. Same with my hair, stick it in a mom bun, everyone will know it’s me. I don’t want to be buried. The risk of a necromancer using my corpse in his army of the dead is too great. Instead, pour a cup of coffee in my honor the day I’m cremated. Mix a little of that milky moonshine we both like so much to make it more bearable to say goodbye. Don’t be too sad. You know I’m still haunting you. I’m just one Ouija board session from crossing back over, but do not attempt. Results may vary.
If I have a choice in it, I’ll come back as a dog and find you. Again and again, if needed, although, hopefully, we won’t leave this world so far apart. I’ll eat your shoes and steal bacon off your plate; I might even growl at your new girlfriend. But, if I do die early, move on. I don’t want you to be alone.
When you get my ashes back, bake me into a nice fluffy bread. Don’t let me mold, and don’t eat me – that’s cannibalism and I probably won’t taste great; you aren’t much of a baker. Take that loaf of bread to Hawaii and feed me to the birds, so I can fly over the ocean and fly over the mountains, soaring through the sky – and then I can be shit on shitty people or shit into the ocean, sinking deeper into the vast expanse of the reefs, gobbled down by bright little fish, baptized in salt.
Never forget that I love you. And I love our children. And I love our life. I have been reborn through your love, and nothing so minor as death could ever get between us.