Dearly beloved, If you’re reading this, it’s because I am “dead.” Yes, really and truly, I have “died.” Why quotation marks? Because, if all goes to plan, all will suppose me dead as I live out the last* of my days with Ella Yelich-O’Connor on a deserted island. But for all intents and purposes, I am dead. Also, if you’re reading this, it is either because I love you deeply or because I want you to believe me dead and kindly leave my life. Don’t think about it too much, it will only make grieving my absence that much harder. Anyway, if you care for my soul and want to help me pass Pharaoh-style into the afterlife — literally brainless and surrounded by money — please ensure that my funeral plays out exactly as I’ve planned it. Guest list: Lorde, Stevie Wonder, the ghosts of Amy Winehouse and Roald Dahl, either of the two lizards who freeload in my front yard, Hamburger Helper, my dogs, every last living member of the Rotunda Burning Society, Walt Disney’s cryogenically frozen head and the last six people I texted. And, of course, you — unless, tragically, you are ugly. Absolutely no uggos are permitted to attend the party of my lifetime. I will not bend on this, and neither should you — just wait outside until the service is over. Ambiance: Candle light emanating from antique bronze candelabras adorned with opals, subtle but notable wafts of Febreeze’s best attempt to recreate lavender and “Ribs” on loop. Menu: Grapes of every color, slightly stale popcorn, scrambled eggs and sparkling water. Venue: My safe haven, my paradise, my Sun — the sixth table from the drink machines along the window-covered wall in the main dining area of Newcomb. 1 a.m. on a Wednesday (to narrow attendees down to true fans only). Burial preferences: This is the most demanding part, so stay alert. First, you need to order my tombstone. I envision a light pink marble or a neutral-toned granite. Engrave my instagram handle onto the tombstone, and beneath that, engrave ;( Now, this part is tricky. I have a set guest list to my funeral (noted above), but you should also sell about 50 tickets for something like $100 a pop. Each friend and family member will have to pay in cash to say goodbye to me. Before you go to place my empty casket in the ground, take all the bills and place them inside my coffin. Bury my coffin no more than two feet deep, and leave a shovel and keys to my coffin behind my tombstone. Do not, by any means, bury it deeper or retain the keys in the spirit of keeping my memory ~safe~. Dead people don’t need protection, but “dead” people need money. Finally, just a few rules to enforce at my funeral: allow absolutely no one to converse with one another, place pilfered produce into the bags of the attendees and never tell the Government that I am dead so you can collect my Medicare and unemployment checks forever. Also, tell anyone who society might deem objectively more attractive than myself to place bags over their faces so that their beauty distracts no one from the crushing weight of my absence, nor from memories of my gleaming visage. Also, and this one’s just a personal favor to me, but do not include a picture of me anywhere at my funeral and/or wake. If you feel so compelled, you may stick mirrors into frames and place those about the room. Attractively, unwaveringly and mystically, Lucy? *I cannot say for certain that the last of my days will ever arrive. Until I die, there will be no way to know whether or not I even have the ability to die. Immortality is a waiting game. Lucy Hopkins is a Humor Columnist for The Cavalier Daily. She can be reached at email@example.com.