The Wardrobe’s Best Dressed: Inheritance with a High Error Rate by Jen Karetnick

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@Death Follows Me on Twitter

                                                          From a real, defunct Twitter account

@Death tells me our relationship is complicated, and wants to
simplify things.

@Death tells me about “soul midwives” and “death doulas,”
flashlight-armed ushers to that final throne.

@Death tells me to decide now between a 12-piece jazz band and
Rush’s 2112 for my service.

@Death tells me that wearing a Fitbit may help me die better:
10,000 steps toward a daily end.

@Death tells me, on the day Wimbledon begins, the history
behind the sudden-death tiebreak. There used to be a
lingering-death tiebreak, too, but that was put to death.

@Death tells me the florists known for reliability and fair pricing.
@Death does not know the scent of flowers aches my temples,
throbs my veins.

@Death tells me the statistics on selfies: officially five times more
fatal than shark attacks.

@Death tells me jokes, like the one about the man who invented
autocorrect dying. “Restaurant in Peace,” @Death says.

@Death tells me, when the U.S. women win their fourth World
Cup, that captains of losing teams were traditionally sacrificed.

@Death wants to know if I will put down my surviving pets when
I die.

@Death is feeling ancient Egyptian, but walks like a cop in a donut
shop.

@Death wants me to take one last rum safari in Jamaica, drink
mamajuana with the locals.

@Death tells me that “dying on holiday does happen.” Presumably
by selfie.

@Death tells me lines from obituaries, such as “Freeda sledgehammered
every rule of healthy eating to obtain a nice long
life.”

@Death tells me about direct cremation, how I can be turned into
ash without a priest. @Death does not know that I’m Jewish,
despite skin etched into graphic anecdotes.

@Death tells me stories, like the one about the golden retriever
trained to bring tissues to mourners at a funeral home.

@Death asks if I’ve seen Michael Jackson around. @Death is not
old enough to ask about Elvis.

@Death posts links for alternative hearses. My coffin can be
carried by a Harley Davidson sidecar, Volkswagen Campervan,
horse-drawn carriage, fire engine, vintage truck, bicycle, or
Land Rover capable of an off-road detour.

@Death tells me grief will compound chronic pain, speed up an
illness.

@Death tells me to appoint a digital executor to care for my social
media estate.

@Death tells me how I can be unburied in a coffin made of willow
or bamboo that biodegrades so that my bones will be available
to the earth, my reception embraceable as limbs. Death does
not know that I live at sea level, where mangroves snarl the
sand.

@Death tells me how I do and do not feel, twice per day,
sometimes three times.

@Death tells me to be #DeathPositive, but so often the numbers
say otherwise.