My Last Will and Testament

If you are reading this, I have died. Or you just discovered that my copy of Paula Deen: It Ain’t All About the Cookin’ is actually a hollowed-out chamber of secrets filled with tear-stained love letters, explicit Polaroids, and stray hairs of every guy who has used my bathroom. Wait, did you break in my apartment?! You psycho bitch! Unless you’re a guy, then I’m super flattered that you’re stalking me and I am definitely not making a wig that metaphorically connects me to every male I’ve encountered... That’d be so crazy... heh...


Oh, shit. I actually did die. Sorry for thinking you’d burglarize my home. That was a low blow. Are we good now? Cool. I hate when we fight. Okay, you can go back to violently sobbing over me.

Wow. I can’t believe I’m gone either. I’ve been mentally preparing for this ever since I turned 23, the maximum life expectancy of a female in a college town, although there were still so many life goals I had yet to accomplish—like give birth, or create a sandwich consisting of a Crunchwrap Supreme between two Hungry Howie’s pizzas, or look Zach Galifianakis square in the eyes and whisper, “I understand you.”

But all good things must come to an end, including my time on this earth so apparently it qualified as “good” under some loose standard. The same expert has planned my birthday parties for the past ten years, and I don’t trust anyone else’s bougie taste with my deathday, either. Her number is at the bottom of this page OH WAIT she’s dead. That’s right—I’m planning the funeral—and if any of you lay your grubby fingers on the smallest detail then right hand to God I will reincarnate as a cockroach and follow you for all eternity—and not in a trusty sidekick kind of way. You get it.

Okay so—I love the idea of an open casket, so everyone can finally stare at me for as long as they want without me noticing. However, I will most likely be killed in a gruesomely realistic reenactment of the 90’s East Coast/West Coast hip-hop rivalry, so my face will not be suitable for presentation. However, even if I do die in a less thug way, close the casket—if I don’t go down in a blood-spattered fury, I want the world to at least think I did. Do you know any badass rap songs written about someone who died of natural causes? Me neither. Moving on—in lieu of flowers, I would like people to pay their respects to my family by sending them gifts that can’t die—Reese’s Pieces, McDonald’s nuggets, Twizzlers, really any vague food-like item that never decomposes. This symbolizes how my love for them is so over-processed that it can outlast anything that occurs in nature. Also, no pictures of me, please, unless they are Photoshopped to the point of people questioning if they remember me having an eating disorder.

Attached are three pre-packaged eulogies. The first is to be read by my love, my life, my soulmate. Contact Ford Models and hire their most in-demand underwear model to perform this—preferably someone with an Australian accent. Figured this would get pricey so I opened a savings account specifically for this five years ago. Should be enough. Ask if they accept CVS coupons.


You might be wondering why the second eulogy is in Mandarin; your task is to find a Chinese toddler with brutally chubby cheeks to recite this. I want everyone to remember me as a cultured citizen of the world who treated every ethnicity with warmth and sensitivity. The kid can be Korean, though. Who cares.

The last eulogy is going to the next homeless person you see. I included pauses and extra syllables so people will think he can’t read. Bonus points for finding one that actually can’t read—in this case, give him a picture of my face at the podium and have him gaze longingly at it and cry for at least 25 minutes. I want this cry to be convincing. Everyone is going to wonder how I touched the life of this destitute stranger in such a poignant way—this is the exact intention. If someone asks you what happened, casually gaze up to the heavens and sigh—“Kali always worked in mysterious ways.” No more, no less.


Follow these instructions to the tee, and I’ll save you a seat in heaven right across the zero-calorie Chinese buffet, at the IMAX theater looping every episode of Even Stevens. Or at least in hell, whatever, they have better drugs. Thank you for keeping my legacy alive. And, again, I’m so sorry for your loss.