My Last Will and Toastament

You better be nice to me or I won’t leave you my plastic bags.

If you’re reading this, I’m probably dead. And not “dead” as in, “OMG, your tweet is so funny, I’m dead.” No, I mean the bad dead. Dead dead. Dead as a mackerel (speaking of which, why is it always a mackerel? What about salmon? Trout? Flounder? Welp, too late to Google that now.)

Deader than a doorknob. Which, if you think about it, is a good thing. Who wants to touch a live doorknob? What would that even feel like? I’m picturing a mushroom, a large mushroom sprouting from the door which you would need to grasp and turn. But mushrooms are fragile, so that’s not going to work. One squeeze and no more doorknob. And then how do you open the door?

I just want to make it absolutely crystal clear that if you’re reading this, I am no longer alive. I am, in fact, the opposite of alive. Which is dead.

I know, I know. It’s heartbreaking. Everyone will miss my unpredictable moods and patented oatmeal cookies. (The secret is instant vanilla pudding. I can tell you that now since I’m dead.)

Anyway, let’s get to the part where I give stuff away. I know that’s the only reason you’ve read this far anyway, who am I kidding? I didn’t mix Pop Rocks and Pepsi because I had a flourishing career as a writer. No, I downed the speedball that killed LIFE cereal’s Little Mikey because I suck as both a writer and as also a human being, too.

I’m not going to bequeath the following items to each of you individually because I never cared about you enough to really get to know you. Rather, I’ve instructed my attorney to schedule one-on-one cage matches, Thunderdome-style. To the winners go the spoils, as it were, vis-à-vis, Carpe Diem, caveat emptor.

My collection of perfume samples torn out of fashion magazines.

These allow you to sample pricey perfumes that you can’t afford no matter how much you like them. In that way, they’re a lot like life — you can try it, but you’ll never be rich enough to experience the real thing. And just remember not to rub them on parts you can’t easily wash in the office sink when the smell of Viktor&Rolf’s Flowerbomb wafting up from your boobs makes you want to puke.

My 50 bottles of nail polish, some dating as far back as high school.

Much like salad dressing, nail polish never goes bad. I’m like a bird walking through the drugstore — ooooh, something sparkly! I must take it home and put it under my bathroom sink where I’ll never look at it again! Because who has time to polish their nails?? I work three jobs just to afford basic healthcare. The days of lounging around for hours fanning my hands in the air and picking things up with my elbows are long gone. My cuticles are so overgrown I don’t even know if I have fingernails anymore.

My plastic bag collection.

This one is going to be popular since by the time you read this, plastic bags will have been outlawed for the sake of seals, or turtles, or sea cucumbers or whatever, and cat ladies everywhere are going to be desperate — desperate, I tell you — for someplace to put their used cat litter. One plastic bag probably sells for $20 on eBay. The police will immediately tase you if they see you carrying a plastic bag, no questions asked.

Whatever is on the bottom of my chest freezer which I haven’t defrosted since I bought it 15 years ago.

Again, if things keep going the way they are, whatever’s down there is probably pretty valuable by now. It might be a bag of frozen peas, it might be a prehistoric Lean Cuisine, it might be hamburger buns that will disintegrate into a pile of dust like a vampire being exposed to sunlight. That’s the fun of it! No one knows what’s down there, not even me! Oh, and here’s an ice pick. You’re going to need it.

Legal secretary by day, insomniac by night. BA, MA. If life is a journey, I’m lost. Slackjaw, Points In Case, The Funny Times, The Haven. Twitter: @blade_funner

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