I become aware of my hyper mortality very often. I have this overwhelming hyper realization that I will die someday. Today, this hyper mortality is a symptom of flying.
As a result of this wave of hyper mortality, another fear sets in. Should I meet my maker, someone will have to go through my things and divide up my lot.
This means one thing. Someone will have access to my internet browsing history. This history will be the key to my legacy. This. Is. F***ing. SCARY.
First and foremost, the one thing that defines you on the internet is not your Facebook, Twitter, or Instagram account… it is your Google search box. This will clearly reveal what you are looking up on a regular basis. For example, mine will tell you that I am a closeted hypochondriac. Here are some examples from my box:
“a” abscess tooth like Don Draper in that one episode of Mad Men
“c” Cervical cancer symptoms
“e” Ebola
“h” Humans spontaneously combusting
“n” Nose piercing red
“o” One boob bigger than the other
“s” Small red bump inside of nose
You will also find in my box, research for the things I write, which may lead some people to believe that while I was alive, I was mentally ill:
“b” Blogs about what your internet history will say about you
“j” Jon Hamm
“l” Lon Hamm. Did you mean Jon Hamm?
“m” Marcy Playground
“u” Urine therapy
“w” Woman impregnated by squid
Now your actual honest to God history fills in any blanks left by your Google Box. Should I die, people will know:
-I was single (and did not know where Durban was located).
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-I was obsessed with the weather.
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-I had a Facebook problem.
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-I stalked people on Facebook.
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-I had a Buzzfeed problem.
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In looking at this, I have only one regret. That no on will ever know that I was the FourSquare Mayor of Claire’s Boutique on Steinway in Astoria, Queens. My greatest accomplishment will never be known.


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