If applicable, make sure I’m dressed appropriately before the medics come. Brush my hair, at least. Do not break the news gently to anyone. Just say “she’s dead.” I think that’s easier to process. If I don’t die valiantly or with a headline worthy event, please make something up. “She died on the toilet” or something similar is not a great lasting legacy. Speaking of lasting legacy, please change all statuses of my online profiles to “Dead.” Do not make a Facebook tribute page to me. That’s gauche and embarrassing. Do post a photo on my tumblr with the caption “She’s dead and she’s ok with that.” Do not bury me. Do not dress me in fancy clothes and display me in a velvet lined coffin in a stuffy funeral parlor. Burn me to a crisp then gather the ashes and dump them somewhere appropriate, perhaps on Gary Bettman’s doorstep or that space in my backyard where the dog pees. Do not hold a funeral. Do not force my friends to endure a Catholic mass when I have not been a Catholic since 1980. If you need to reconcile my death with your faith, feel free to do so on your own. Do hold a memorial service, one that is tasteless and seemingly inappropriate. Play a few Queens of the Stone Age songs or, if you desire, Raffi’s “Baby Beluga” while people drink shots of tequila out of Dixie cups with riddles on them. If you’re going to serve beer, please make it an IPA and not something like Budweiser. Don’t be cheap. Take one of my credit cards before my family cancels them and buy a few cases of Lagunista, ok? Do not get up and speak about me. Good god, don’t do that. If it makes you feel better, do dramatic readings of my tweets. Make sure my kids carry on without me, though have them pretend to mourn for a few days before going back to their lives of yoga and YouTube trolling. Go to an Islanders game and just hold your middle finger up to the owner’s box for me for one whole period. Make sure my underwear drawer and the secret place in my closet are cleaned out of sexual paraphernalia and SpongeBob underoos before my parents come to clean the place out. Do not explain anything to them, no matter how much they ask. Delete all my old websites. Let the domains expire. Leave my Apple account as is and let the complete seasons of both Glee and Archer be a testament to my bipolar disorder. Do not speak ill of me privately. Take that shit public. Write blog posts about how much you hated me. Post all those awful photos you took of me in Chicago. Do not make a slideshow of my flickr sets and put maudlin music in the background and pithy quotes about life on the photos. I will haunt the fuck out of you if you do this. Don’t jump to conclusions about the events leading up to my death. Just take the actual story and embellish it in a way that makes you look good. Make it about you. Don’t tell work I’m dead. Let them think I just stopped showing up. See how long it takes them to fire me. When they do, show them the obituary and yell PSYCH! Play my Letterpress games for me. Fight over my iPad and Macbook. Delete all my apps and start over. Take my Verizon upgrade and get yourself that iPhone. Post excerpts from my never published books in a muscle car forum. Understand that chapter 15, paragraph three is about you. Take what’s left of my Xanax and Abilify and give them to that one guy who isn’t even aware he needs them. Ask people what they thought of me. Tell them their thoughts are wrong. Make things up, grand lies and tales about my upbringing, my youth, my marriages, my parenting skills. Erect a tiny statue of me and leave it somewhere in the Nassau Coliseum parking lot. Leave my car in my space at work and let the seagulls make an everlasting bathroom of it. Speak well of me. In lieu of speaking well, talk shit. Do not send flowers. Don’t ever send flowers.