I think I would be okay with getting murdered if it meant that in trying
to solve my mysterious murder, the handsome detective who researches
the case (and, consequently, my life) falls in love with me. He can’t
believe how witty and amazing I am in all of my Facebook chat logs and
text messages. Finally, he nabs the person who did it to me and locks
him away forever. Then he overturns laws so that he can marry me postmortem and he keeps my ashes forever. “This is my wife,” he’ll
introduce my urn to company picnics. He’ll make an off color joke about
my nickname being Ashley Springfield and no one will laugh.