If, by chance, you are reading this, then I am sure you are aware of the fact that I am dead. It was most likely not my choice to leave but it has happened regardless of my wishes. Therefore my wishes, not being met by nature, must be met by you
I ask that you feed and take care of my dog in my absence. When all of you let me down, he was still there a-waggin' his tail just for me. I would be rolling in my grave to find out that he should suffer because of my insignificant death.
It is my second request that all of my personal writings find publishing in some shape or form, whether in a news article or simply written down on your souls so that you may be tormented by the fact that my passion for words only brought me grief in life. My house, which is now officially government property, should hastily and illegally be set fire to after my first two wishes have been met. I hope this could be used as a political statement that the destruction of something that is no longer being used by humanity can bring people—in this case, all of you—together for one common, admirable cause.
My final want is for you, if my body is found whole, to ingest the parts of it as follows: my current lover should get my heart, cook it, and then eat it without utensils, by hand only. There will be no need for flavorings or seasonings as I'm sure my heart is already coated in unimaginable layers of deadly fat.
I ask that my best friends take my brain and turn it into a soup, thick and full of substance, just as my thoughts were, and drink it while warm. Vegetables may be added, uncooked, to ensure a certain crunch I know my imaginings lacked, and pepper should be mixed in to induce a false zest I wish I had while alive.
I ask that my mother take my hair and add it into pasta; she always called me her angel and knew I had a sense of humor; therefore, she may enjoy the little pun of eating angel hair.
Lastly, I ask that my ass, as big as it may be in my final hours, be served secretly—raw, fleshy, and full of blood—to my enemies, to the overzealous leaders of this world, and to any and all people who are simply stupid. In my quiet subservience, I never once had the chance to tell them to kiss it, so now they may feast on it unwittingly, gnaw at every bit of me I wish I had shoved in their faces, choke down on each moment I simply did as I was told and smiled. They should not be made aware of what they are consuming until the deed itself has been finished.
I would then like you to take whatever remains of me and carry it around with you in some way. I am sure shards of my teeth—although I am no shark—would look quite fashionable on a hemp necklace. If a fashion statement is not something you want to make, I would prefer that my drug using friends take bits of me and smoke, inject, or swallow in pill form. No, dear ones, it is unlikely that this will occur, but quite possibly traces of my crazier partying may still reside in my body and you will get high. For my more artsy friends, whatever bits of my hair are left, you could use as a brush for your painting. For my fellow writers, siblings of my soul, watering down my blood and using it as an accent in ink could prove to be a touching tribute to me and a beneficial accent to your work, adding notoriety to whatever pieces you may be creating.
These measures are taken selfishly, hoping to vicariously live through each of you in such a capacity I could not while alive. May my premature downfall, premature only because I had believed I could live forever, provide a valuable and unforgettable testament to the power a single whispering voice can have on the lives of many.
It is with a sad (and hopefully delicious!) heart that I tell you all goodbye. For the good and the bad, for when we triumphed or when you stomped me into the ground, I want to thank you. You provided me with the illusion that life is a thing that never ends. But when it comes down to it, when the magic show is over and the magician comes off the stage, the curtain closes and he returns to being a mere mortal, we realize it was all only magic or slight of hand. Whether or not the magic was real is irrelevant by the time you march home to tell your family about all the wonderful things you've seen. I'm going to a new home now, traveling with my bag on my back and a pen in my hand, to tell others about the magic you've shown me. I am dead but always with you,