My Will.

1. I want Tech N9ne to rap at my wake. And not the sad existentialist songs, I want a fucking party, with stage diving, lighting and smoke effects. People get to be groped while they’re at it too. You’re welcome.
   
2. I want a funny tombstone that makes it impossible for people to mourn properly. It has to include the following words: ‘Awesome, Rory, Coffee, Badass.’ 
   Or:
                                                                                                                     
   
   
3. I want my coffin to be a TARDIS.
4. I want people to take turns throwing coffee beans inside my TARDIS coffin (in the wake), in the old tradition of letting go.
   
5. I want Baileys to be incessantly served at my funeral until everybody gets sufficiently shitfaced, but never quite pass out. Hors d'oeuvre shall be sushi, and the waiters should be welsh so that when they give the guests a creepy fairytale about my haunting their ass if they don’t swallow, people actually buy it. And after the inevitable success, the waiters are to quip an annoying ‘That’s What She Said.’
   
6. I want all that remains of my fortune to go into buying my dad a cabin by a lake, the one he always wanted. He could live there with Grandma and be happy forever.
7. My collection of dystopic novels goes to Reem Adel, Laura Raef (if she'll have it) and Hadya Mansour. Ali Moneib gets to have my blue jeep wrangler that I'll undoubtedly own by the time, or matchbox of a car which I’ll most realistically own, if it’s in one piece by then (that could be the way I go, have you seen my driving?) as well as my credit card which he can abuse online, on etsy, or on one of those shady forums on the dark web, I don't judge. My Maths notes which are too invaluable not to be passed on to another human being (Laura would want this) and all my graphic-related gadgets, gaming laptop and a 10-year subscription to Nola cupcakes goes to Amr Rifky. And make sure they don’t arrive daily because then he'll get fat, stop doing capoeira and hate me and that’s all I’ll ever hear when he comes to visit, and I’ll be a little too tied up to retort. Yara Al Sayes gets to have any and all cult or fan merch I might own at the time, and Andre Michel gets a freepass to use my memory to pick up chicks.
   
8. I want to be remembered every time someone has coffee with my very own custom roast.
   
9. I want Kurt Vonnegut to pitch a sarcastic existentialist speech that, again, makes people unable to mourn properly without short outbursts of breaking out in hysterical laughter, which they’ll feel awfully guilty for, at which point Kurt would go on and the cycle continues. In case people’s spirits are actually there at their wake, that’d be terribly entertaining.
   
10. When people take turns giving a word, they have to do it in a British accent and keep a straight face, or else they have to start all over again.
    
11. I want Danny DeVito to show up and make everyone who ever made fun of midgets feel like a paramount failure of a human being and give people midget torso hugs on my behalf.
    
12. I want a Rory comic subscription addressed back to my slot.
    
13. I want Snoop Dogg to be disguised as the wise bartender, and freestyle people’s grief away by talking about how I kept it hood until everyone’s sick of how awesome I was.
    
14. As for the scripture that is to be recited when I’m put into the ground, I’d like Tech N9ne’s Hope For A Higher Power to be reiterated by a pimped out priest who is absolutely required to wear bling and have fairly good flow. The sermon is to be wrapped up with “Peace out.”
    
15. I’d like a piñata to be hung in a corner for all the people I pissed off, I’d hate to go without having a clean slate.
    
16. I want a double who keeps running from room to room and confuses people as to whether I’m actually dead or not. That should go on for a while until someone thinks they’ve lost it and start claiming they see dead people, then the double is to walk out and stop being a creepy motherfucker.
    
17. And last but not least, I want an incredibly hot actor to be hired and wail uncontrollably at the lost love of his life that cannot be possibly replaced by any other fun-sized boob-bearing creature.
    
18. Whoever remains of the Timelords should carry my TARDIS coffin back to my slot, I'll be lead to the next life on the shoulders of a wibbly wobbly doctor procession in a timey wimey manner.
19. After everyone is gone, I want someone to sell my slot and give my body to one of those companies that turn your organic remains into tree fertilizer. After all, I don't want to be buried, I want to be a tree when I'm dead. In all seriousness.