K and I have an “if I die, you delete my phone” pact. Like any Will, you need to update it from time to time. I needed a little help with my wording, so K, who has been the executor on an estate or two in real life, took the time to craft me this beautiful letter that I will send to her when I die:
If you’re reading this, I’m ded [sic]. Yes, that kind of ded. Poke me with a stick. I won’t budge.
First things first, destroy my FrostIron smut. Then destroy all browsing history from my iPad, smart phone, laptop, etc.
Bury me face down in a pair of your Lulu yoga pants and molest me silly if you’d like. (But don’t bury me in some cheap imitation. I want to meet my maker in something that hugs my curves. Trust me: I know the difference, and I will haunt the shit out of you if you try to pull a fast one.)
I’m sorry that we didn’t get to go over the Grand Canyon in our Jazzies. I’ve left you a pair of my prized roller blades from 1998 to make up for it. Because I know you don’t know how to roller blade, I’m certain you’ll be joining me soon.
In closing, thank you for being such a good friend to me and always looking out for my best interests. I’ll ask Satan — err, I mean Santa — to bring you a pny [sic].
K made sure to add as an addendum for the letter:
Make sure to mention that I will be throwing myself on your grave for extra effect. Can’t have anyone suspecting I was the one who pushed you down the stairs and blamed the cats.