But the show must go on. Here's my will:
If I go missing for more than a month, this will comes into effect. Most likely, I've just folded my hand and gone off to rot in Costa Rica but don't bother looking for me as I promise I won't want to be found.
In case of brain death, all my immediate family should be present and standing around pointing and laughing at me while a doctor pulls the plug. I can't stand cry babies.
If I die under suspicious circumstances, go immediately to Springville, Utah and arrest my mother-in-law, Elaine. She's had it out for me ever since I married her son and made him eat wheat bread even though he prefers white. Don't be fooled by her sweet demeanor and scrumptious homemade dinner rolls. She's a fruitcake eater. She's capable of anything.
My husband goes to "FirstInLine" since she was the first to ask for him. He comes tricked out with his own toothbrush, credit card and X-Box. Enjoy.
My two year old daughter goes to Zach, the 5 year old at church who is crazy about her and always follows us around begging for a playdate. He'll die of happiness. Then I guess she'll go to an orphanage...
This blog goes to my husband so he can shut the darn thing down like he's always raving about. As a lawyer, this place gives him the creeps. Every ring of the phone is a potential lawsuit.
My '96 Toyota Tercel should be fitted with a purple satin interior and used as my coffin. I've stuck with it this long, no reason to abandon it now. My husband wouldn't be caught dead in that car so let's just put my dead body in it. Plus it's WAY cheaper than buying a casket.
The car should then be driven to Santa Monica pier, stuffed with firecrackers, set aflame, a brick wedged on the gas pedal and driven off the end of the jetty in a blaze of glory Viking style. Someone make sure to get a video of it for YouTube.
My beautiful antique violin from 1889 goes straight to the incinerator. I've had one too many solo performances in church where I almost died of stage fright to pass on its subtle tortures to anyone else. No, Mom - I mean it. Burn the horrid thing. I'm scheduled to perform again on February 11th and can only hope I meet some gruesome death before that time.
My wedding ring should be pierced through my husband's nose like an ox so he never forgets me.
My 26 yoga exercise videos go to Troy so he can shoot them off of the tops of fence poles with his AK-47. Is there a better way to clear the mind? I can't think of one.
I won't bother assigning my rock collection to anyone since I know it's just a bunch of rubble only a mother could love. But whatever happens, be kind to them. They're only minerals and never hurt anybody.
The small amount of money I've earned off eBay and half.com should be mailed to LeBron James with a locket of my hair and my fingernail clippings. Creepy, I know, but I'm dead now and that's what I want so do it.