Don't cry for me, Manti. I'm going to be your guardian angel, looking down on you from above. I'm going to protect you and watch over you and live through you.
So no, don't cry for me. Live for me! Carry on my legacy. Do all the girl stuff I loved to do, like buy Lisa Frank notebooks and talk about horses a lot and dot my 'i's with hearts and read Baby-Sitter's Club books. And Sweet Valley High. Even Boxcar Children. Because those are the things that I, a girl, loved. I hated climbing trees and looking at bugs and reading Goosebumps. That boy stuff all stinks when you're an IRL girl, like me, which I am. Was. About to be was. Because I am dying.
Indeed, please forgive me for the blood spots on the paper. I coughed them up as I lay here dying from cancer of the body. They are definitely blood and not buffalo sauce, because my body is sick with a myriad of cancers. Lukemia (sp?), tumor cancer, brain disease, canker sores, AIDS: the works. All those types of cancer. There's no hope for me now, as I will soon be dead and unable to do Skype with you, and Facetime too. I know how badly you wanted to do those things and kept asking me over and over and over, "When are we going to Skype?" and "When can I meet you?," and I'm sorry we can never make those things a reality. In fact, my doctor, Dr. New Man, said I shouldn't talk to anyone on the phone or accept any visitors because it will only make me sicker.
Dr. New Man also said that the cancer spread to my voice and made it sound weird, so that must be why you said it sounded like I was talking through a Talkboy that made my voice all high-pitched those times we talked on the phone before. I am sorry that you could not hear my beautiful voice before it was ravaged by the cancer I got from that darned car accident.
Let's see, what else? Oh, I'm not going to have a funeral. I put it in my will for my body to be given to scientists who study the effects of car accidents on the common cancer. So they're just going to wheel my body into their lab once I kick the bucket. And I'm not going to have an obituary either, because they said rival scientists might see it and try to steal my body. So don't be on the lookout for that stuff.
But that's OK, because I know you, my darling, love of my life, will carry on the name of Lenny Kekua long after I have shuffled this mortal coil. No, wait. Lennay? Lennay. Lennay Kekua. That is a real name that exists, and it is my name. The name that will linger on your lips for all time, God willing.
That doesn't mean that I don't want you to move on, though. I want to be remembered, but I don't want to hold you back. I want you to find someone to love, someone who makes you just as happy as you make me. Actually, I have a friend, Femsley Kromnor, who I think might be perfect for you. I can give her your ICQ handle, but she is very shy, so don't expect her to feel comfortable meeting you or going on Skype or talking on the phone or giving you the last four digits of her social security number or anything. In fact, she is exactly like me in every way, except less able to independently confirm her identity or verify her existence as a girl. Also, unlike me, she doesn't have cancer, ha ha! Anyway, you can expect to hear from her on ICQ after I die.
So in conclusion: I love you, I'm a girl with boobs and periods and stuff, and I'm going to die and disappear from this world forever. Please remember how much I loved you, and go Fighting Irish!