But I know that I hope that when I die, someone will remember the way I always played the first eight bars of Pachelbel’s Canon in D Major every time I sat down at a piano. At least one person has to have noticed that. I hope someone remembers that I always name a Swedish fish before I eat it, and I feel so wrong if I forget. I hope people remember my nervous breakdowns that would always end with something trivial, like stepping on a crab, and then laughing hysterically at the fact that my first thought after being pinched was, “I hope I didn’t hurt it.” I hope someone knows to paint their interpretation of Boticelli’s Birth of Venus in my honor, with my face in place of hers. I hope Lee remembers to tell Vladimir that I want him to be the one who delivers my eulogy, because he always saw me the way I want to see myself. I hope they tell the funeral director to do something about my nose before they put me in the casket. And I hope everyone remembers to wear white jumpsuits and 3-D glasses, and to put plastic Easter grass in my casket.