Dunstan had a love of self-portraits. There are approximately 1,484 pictures of myself on my computer thanks to “Photo Booth.” If I have exotic headwear (such as a shower cap or a Hooters hat) within reach and a few seconds to spare, I’m taking a photo. Maybe one day years after my death, they’ll put these shots on display at an art museum.

Dunstan had great passion, but also great restraint. The detectives will come across a folder on my laptop filled with love letters I never sent (they’ll know this because had they been sent, I would’ve been arrested long ago). These letters will be pages long, grossly self-revealing (fascinations, addictions, pet deaths), and always written in the “I know you think I’m crazy, but that’s so funny because I LOVE YOU” sort of voice usually reserved for chain saw murderers and teachers who date their eighth grade students.

Dustan was not a dumb jock; he had the mind of an artist. The detectives will sort of flub this one. I don’t have any pictures of LeBron James on my desktop, nor any Twins games on my calendar, so they’ll figure I’m not a sports guy. But they’ll make up the last part so the funeral attendees don’t think I was a loner or a “troubled” American male or something.

Dunstan celebrated Billy Joel’s first full-length LP, Cold Spring Harbor. Depending upon your love for early 1970s singer-songwriting, this could be the best or most embarrassing thing uttered at my funeral.

Dunstan did not hold grudges. This will also be a flub, because the detectives will fail to find a Word document currently on my desktop that documents my nemeses, their transgressions, and the respective forms of medieval torture (i.e. quartering, iron maiden, etc…) that I wish to be forced upon them.

Dunstan was going to a campus picnic in only two weeks from now. He so loved picnics. That’s right. There’s a PDF handbill for a picnic for my college in two weeks on my desktop. I just checked. I suppose this doesn’t say anything significant or earth-shattering about me. Except I loved bratwursts and neon-colored clip art.

Dunstan was a budding composer. Thanks to GarageBand, my estate will be able to release a full-length LP every year for the next 95 years. It’ll be like Johnny Cash, except even better because I won’t have had an awkward flag-waving period during the 1980s.

Dunstan loved pictures of women celebrities. Ha! Just kidding. Of course they wouldn’t say this at my funeral. Maybe just whisper it over creamed corn and stuffing in the church basement. But, I thought I cleared my history! Right? I mean, they shouldn’t be able to find this. God damnit! I can’t even die right. The only thing I can do with this laptop—so my parents keep a clean idea in their head of who I am—is to bury this deep in the woods. Say goodbye to my future successes as a posthumous musician all because I have a couple photos of Kirsten Dunst. Son of a bitch!

– Dunstan McGill