First of all, I'd like to thank my mom and my maternal grandmother, who showed me how to bear clumsiness with dignity if not grace. Pause for laughter.
Thanks also to my dad and My Sister the Lawyer for teaching me that gracelessness is best when the amusement is shared. And to my friend Seven, because sometimes, that amusement needs to be shared with a sharp jab to someone's kidney. Pause for laughter.
To the members of the swing dancing club (If you put air quotes around the word "swing," I will personally come back from hell to haunt your ass.) I was part of in college: I owe you so much. Not only did your lessons help me learn to at least not embarrass myself (so much) dancing, they also taught me to walk without running into walls. Mostly. And that's probably what kept me alive for so long. And to all the leads who partnered me: Despite all the times I stepped on your feet, elbowed you in the gut, and once head-butted you during an aerial in a place that could constitute sexual harassment, you never once gave up on me. Or filed charges. Thank you. And I'm really glad your insurance company ended up covering that procedure after all.
Finally, I know I didn't likely die in a dignified manner. I quite possibly didn't have pants on. But please, if you could, remember me just like I was that one time in that photo taken in 2006, where I don't look like a complete derp with stupid hair. Yes, I know that memory will be false, but it's my last wish. Not my dying wish, obviously, because I'm already dead, but my last, post-mortem wish. Or I guess it could be my first post-mortem wish, if one of you develops an affinity for ouija boards.
If you try to contact me by ouija board, I will totally just make "your mom" jokes. So, yeah. (Please stop reading now. I've clearly derailed.)
(True: This is not an attempt to fake my own death. Just to be clear.)