Use My Machu Picchu Selfie For My Funeral

Dear Margaret,

Hey bestie, you. I know this is kind of a weird letter to write, but have you ever thought about what would happen if you just died suddenly in a flaming car crash? Do you have a will written? Who would get your laptop? Would your parents find all the stepbrother porn you’ve been watching? It’s a lot to think about, and that is why you should keep all of your porn searches incognito.

For me, my biggest concern is what picture they’re going to use at my funeral. There will obviously be a lot of hot, available men at this event, so I need you, Margaret, to use the most arousing picture of me possible. And that is the black-and-white selfie I took in front of Machu Picchu in the spring of ’14. You remember that one, right? My hair’s blowing in the wind, I’ve got my left hand up to my face — I’m brushing away my bangs in the most demure-ass adorable way. I’m looking off into the distance, like I’m Zooey Deschanel and I’ve forgotten where I left my sunflower-print Toms. I’m carrying a goddamn copy of A Moveable Feast.

People will remember me as being literary as fuck, but also down to earth — because I’m in nature. I’m smiling, just a little bit. My eyes are both childlike and also they are sex orbs. Do you know how long it takes to perfect something like that? Fifty tries, and a lifetime of practice. This isn’t just your average snow fort photo or prom tree photo. It’s motherfucking Machu Picchu. The Mexicans built that bitch centuries ago. This needs to be the picture at my funeral, not some wholesome, Merry Christmas!, LinkedIn bullshit.

All of the boys who fly across the country for my funeral will see that picture and shed tears and they will think to themselves, “If only I had been there to throw myself in front of the semi-truck,” and “If only I hadn’t cheated on her with her roommate, Sabrina.” If only. These are the reactions I need you to ellicit with my picture. No pressure or anything, Margaret. But you sort of owe me, since 75% of your Tinder profile pictures are artsy photos I took for you on the quad. Remember Chase Connors? All me. Your 2k Instagram followers? Me. I deserve some spiritual dick.

Dying in a flaming car crash sucks. It will no doubt fuck up my eyebrows. It’s going to be a tragedy. But I took that selfie two days after getting a new thread, so you know my arch is at peak performance. That is the way I want to be remembered. Do not make Michael, Eric, Carson, Zack, and Johnny fly Spirit all the way across America just to not climax over some picture of me smiling with my family. Everyone has a family, Margaret.

In conclusion, heaven is a frigid, chaste-as-balls wasteland, and I deserve more than an eternity of white light and the Mother Teresa Cockblock Brigade. If I don’t get some damn-good celestial boning — or at least 19 statuses about how “such a beautiful woman, inside and out, was taken too soon” — I will come for you, best friend, and make sure at your funeral they show that low-res picture of you wearing those GODawful cheetah-print gaucho pants at our eighth grade prom. And that’s a promise.

Hugs,
Stephanie

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Lead Image: Modified from flickr/Evan Forester

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