I was recently informed that sitting is the new smoking (God help smokers who also sit). I spend a fair amount of time in the car now, typically sitting, and this gives me plenty of time to ponder my own mortality and the mortality of that idiot in front of me with the “Cash For Your Warhol” sticker on his bumper. Oh, tee hee. Frigging Cambridge.

Last night, as I drove home in a lightning storm, narrowly avoiding a squashing as the rear doors of a tractor trailer flew open in front of me, I wondered if I should prepare a farewell post for Just In Case. I already have my clearly marked album of sexy photos labeled “Approved for use for public memorial purposes.” But there are so many ways to kick it that I think I might have to target my posts and photos, much like one used to be advised to target a resume in the olden days when people actually had those or read them.

If I die in a particularly thrilling way, like forced Fugu poisoning because I crossed the Yakuza or going on a mescaline-fueled bender and crashing a stolen fighter jet into Mount Rushmore, I want my family to first call Michael Bay and sell the rights to my story. Then they will need to notify my social networks and even my parents. I would want my official final photos to show the deep, introspective side of me too. It’s not all glitter and body oil and cleavage over here. We also have philosophy. And Opinions.

If I die in one of the far more likely common manners of death, I might need to punch it up a little. Imagine reading an obituary blandly detailing my death in a car accident, an IKEA assembly tragedy, or acute compflunction from exposure to Katy Perry (It’s transcendental/at another level). Yawn. In that case, pull out all the stops! I want to be remembered as a be-frilled vixen who ruled with an iron fist in a newborn skin glove.

It really is impossible to please everyone, even myself, isn’t it. Some people make wills, I leave style guides. Oh hell, I will leave it all up to Lambchop. She’s good with this sort of vision work.