Last Will and Testament of a Broke New Yorker
My minuscule room, with its tiny, dirt-coated window that faces a brick wall, should go to an unsuspecting, optimistic woman moving to New York City to “chase her dreams.” I was you, once. Welcome to my room, and welcome to the city that never lets you sleep, because your stressful life here will be insurmountably difficult and also because of that baby who never stops crying.
My many clothes, which somehow cost four dollars individually and five million dollars collectively, should go to Goodwill, but only after an attempt to sell them to a fancy thrift store where a joyless, septum-pierced woman will take one look at a shabby blouse before declaring, “We’re not going to take these. These are barely clothes.”
The four-month-old hummus in the fridge should go in the trash.
My bed, covered in questionable stains, should be burned. This also goes for all other evidence of my sad one-night stands, including the condom wrapper that has been lying crumpled up under my bed for seven months, the dusty glass of water on my shelf that one woman requested upon arriving but never sipped, and the nauseating vanilla Yankee Candle that I always lit during intimate moments.
My toothpaste should go to my roommates, who use it anyway.
My phone should be given to the government, as it contains a great deal of incriminating evidence against my manager, Claire, who pays me minimum wage to work at her overpriced coffee shop. Intel regarding Claire’s true character can be found in the form of texts to other employees, defaced screenshots of her vacation pics on Instagram, and subtweets from the day she forced me to make a latte three times because my steamed-oat-milk flower was “sloppy” and “not up to the café’s standards.” If my cause of death is suspicious, I recommend you question Claire first.
My savings should go to no one, as I do not have those. I’m sure you’ve gathered that by now.
I understand that it is my civic duty to leave my weekly unlimited MetroCard to someone in need of free rides. However, it is the only currency I currently possess. Therefore, I would like to be buried with it, not unlike a Pharaoh buried with his solid-gold chariot.
The half-consumed pint of cookie-dough ice cream in my freezer should go to my best friend, who stayed by my side through the highs (of which there were few) and the lows (of which there were plenty). It’s Ben and Jerry’s, which means it cost six dollars, which means it is the closest I ever came to investing. This dessert is an asset and should be saved as long as possible, so that it can grow (freezer burn).
My spider plant should go directly to the dumpster behind my apartment. Bypass the apartment’s trash can; this houseplant has been dead for months longer than I have and likely qualifies as toxic waste. It must be disposed of immediately. After you investigate Claire, you might want to look into this plant’s role in my death.
My cat should go to my mother. When he, in turn, passes, I ask that his ashes be transported to my burial plot. He is the only being I’ve met in New York that I am comfortable spending eternity with. He has left his mark on my life, and also on my bed, on my roommate’s bed, and on my other roommate’s bed.
The thousands of empty seltzer bottles scattered around my room should be recycled. Maybe instead of spending twenty dollars a week on throat-burning water that dehydrates you, I should have saved— Ah, well, too late for that now.
I, a New Yorker with thirty-three dollars to my name, have signed this will in the presence of My College Debt and That Overpriced Avocado Toast I Had That One Time.