The second Biaxin 800MG pill is dissolving into my already loaded bloodstream conjuring imagery of my veins resembling the various alley ways of South DC, where colorful members of the Virus Gang hide out and either stab you or offer you crack. My hope is that the Anti Biotic Squad, backed up by the boys from vC will shoot first and ask questions later as they work their way through to Tounsils(R), a no-good hang out for scum and villiany the likes of which the galaxy has never seen.

As with the soldiers, I decided I should make out my demands in case the Virus should figure out where the g-men are entering and try to cause an avalanche, as the bad guys do in so many heroic battles for survival - and this is one of them. As I type this, I sit here with my least favorite tie, looped ninja-style around my sleep deprived head. So I'll just begin:

To Kevin, my brother, I leave my surfboard (about time) and my clothes. You're a Hollister model, so you can make nice pillows out of them to lay on and look off into the distance - they might even have "factories" in South America that could do it for you at an employee discount.

To Corrin, my sister, I leave my books and my computer stuff because you have to compose something that brings that b**** Lindsey Lohan down a few pegs.

To Rob, I leave the mess in the kitchen that was there when you walked in and declared, "It smells like ____ in here." Also, you get my rolodex - incidently, I had a great time with that blind date, Typhoid Mary, last weekend - weird name, did she say she was interested in seeing me again?

To Quest Labs, I leave you my left ass cheek, and here's hoping it falls off, because you can't tell your hand from a fork lift.

To my Fraternity, I can't leave anything. The system, it appears, has failed. Wait, you can have the footon chair back, I guess.

My right ass cheek goes to the University of Florida where it will be researched by recent grad and former roommate, Steve Kurian, who will prove once and for all whether or it was Cheap or just Not Living Off its Parents.

To Buster, I leave my Mojo and all layered Photoshop and AE files. He'll understand.

To my parent's I leave all my current bank accounts (all $900 and change) and the metro tickets in my couch cushions somewhere. My baseball cards and stamp collections are to be sold and used for my burial. I have no property, only this web site which holds the better of my talents, my love of writing, which you gave me and inspired me to develop.

Let's see, TJ gets to hold the torch above my body which is to be prepared Viking style, on a vodka-soaked bier. I say "hold" because I know that Ty's incessant and innapropriate monkey-shines at the fire fire will result in it being dropped anyways, but its totally cool, accidents make the best stories. Ashlie, my scullery wench, is to be burned shortly thereafter, to follow me into the next life. She'll probably be a little peeved at me for that, but we'll work things out - I promise. Kisses!

My ashes are to be secretly mixed into the lunch milk of America's Public Schools, to be drunk greedily for generations of unsuspecting kids to come, or for as long as my ashes can be thinned using whatever they put in the milk now. Whenever some smartass says nonchalantly, "I think we all have a little bit of Brandon in us, somewhere" in the made-for-tv movie on UPN, I want it to be true.

These are the wishes of a dying man. I hold no real accomplishments except that I've fought hard and covered ground, loved and lost, known good times and bad, and can probably get your sister's number when you're not looking. Good Night.