When I die, I will have a folder on my computer with all my pertinent information to close up my life. All my embarrassing passwords and poetry will be exposed. You’ll discover that one song I wrote while I was incredibly sad. You’ll listen and reflect on it, it’ll make you sad as well because you’ll miss me, but eventually you’ll have to admit that it wasn’t my best work and you understand why it never was publicized.
That song will get stuck in your head. You won’t resent it at first. It’ll be a bittersweet reminder of how much you miss me. You’ll listen to it too much. You’ll sense the hint of intoxication based on the lack of rhythm, and find the slurred words ultimately endearing.
You’ll take any money I have saved up and pay off the unfortunate amount of student loan debt I’ve accumulated because I thought college was a smart thing for me to do when I was 18. In truth, I should have taken a year off, moved to a city, and lived the same life without the formalized schooling. Also in truth–going back to the first thought–maybe you don’t have to pay off student debt. Actually, you should Google it, probably.
When I die you’ll have to file through things that are super personal, like my countless journals dating back since 5th grade, or my vibrator dating back to 2nd. Best to throw them both out, as I was the only one who got pleasure out of them.
Donate my musical instruments and gear to people who will play them. No hobbyists. Okay, wait, never mind–what do I care? I’m dead! That’s like saying, “Don’t donate my organs,” or asking you give my liver to someone who actually will use it. Wait, someone who wants a liver might totally use a liver. There aren’t any liver hobbyists that I know of; this argument is way off. Might as well Google “liver hobbyist”, though, just to see what weird shit comes up.
Eh…not much. That’s probably a good thing. A laser hobbyist, though, is a great thing.
My art. My paintings. I have a lot of them. There’s a slight chance they’ll be worth more once I’m dead. Well, unless that completely relies on someone’s active participation in the art scene. Which I didn’t do. In that case, I have some gesso in my art box to paint over them, or the the dumpster is behind the house. But if you want to do me a solid, try to hang them in a gallery without permission and if they give you any trouble, sigh uncontrollably. Not cry. Sigh. Then call it art and leave.
So, yeah. When I die there’s not too many loose ends to tie up. Take care of my cat unless she dies first. And if she dies first, she’s a damn jerk.