Every time I ride an airplane, I write a little note and que it up should I die in a horrible mid-air disaster. If you are reading this that means I am dead.

Fuck.

Don’t be sad; I died facing my fears, which is kind of defeatist I guess but whatever. If you get a memorial tattoo for me, make sure it’s pretty badass and has a robot or something. I’m glad I died while I still had hair so your grey-scale-portrait on your right calf won’t look so bad.

I leave my possessions to Paul Aftanas, and my cat to John Heaney. My actual intellectual property, I leave to Michael Lennon because he is just as lazy as me so maybe he can use my work as a platform. To Kevin, I’m sorry we grew distant the past year. I hated to see you so sad and it made it hard to be around you. I wish I had the time to give you the time to adjust. I love you and your family.

My last requests are as follows: everyone sit in a basement and listen to bomb the music industry’s stand there until your sober. Some one tell Jeff I died, I’m sure he’ll come play for you. Also, Jest has to make one of my bill and Ted sketches. Or else I’ll haunt the fuck out of those offices.

I’m sorry this sucked. I usually write this as a joke to calm my nerves but I guess I’m dead and these are my last words.

Brrrrrrrrrpt

That was a fart.

Get fucked!
-Drew