At this point in my life, the idea of death doesn’t get to me as much as it used to. Sure I’d love to be around for the next Pitch Perfect movie, but who wouldn’t? Don’t get me wrong. I’m not hanging in fields during lightning storms yelling, “take me now,” and I only text and drive at night. It’s just there aren’t a lot of people that rely on me to make the greatest choices in life and it’s very liberating. Life will go on, but I have a bigger concern. Who’s going to run my Instagram? What is to come of my highly filtered self-absorbed existence? My formal request is directed towards the ‘spiritually’ inclined. Channel me back from the spirit world and I’ll make it worth your trouble. I’ll call it a Haunt Exchange. I’ll communicate through different mediums and probably scare the shit out of you but you’ll get used to it. I’m sure being dead is going take some practice for me as well. I’ll continue to write content via post-shower mirrors, refrigerator magnets, oh, and maybe include a hashtag on the Ouija board. In return I can fuck with your friends, kids, coworkers, hated political figures and your cat. I can customize a plan, slam doors, flicker lights and poke holes in condoms. Oh, and that slime that people sometimes report? That too. #Ghostload. Some real mental fuck-fucks for your favorites. You think I take this many selfies cause I’m in love with myself? I’m doing this for my future. My legacy. Even in death I need this. I want to go out with a laugh and since hell is hot, I’m probably going to need a vacay now and then.