…I’ve been sick. I think it’s an appropriate assumption to assume that my days here on this big blue and green earth are numbered. I’m dying. It’s a tragedy the plague cut my life so short. And even sadder I went out with out really contributing to the history books. Didn’t invent anything meaningful, or say anything profound. I didn’t even get my face in a newspaper. If I croaked now my existence could be forgotten and on my tombstone it might as well say “she settled for mediocrity.”
My Will:
All the cash in my wallet…Lone Tree Hill, the homeless Indian guy I met at Pioneer Park. (Please ask him to tell you the joke about the cow and the wife).
And this song will be played at my funeral:
Goodbye cruel world…Geeze you didn’t even give me and Lone Tree a chance.
