I, Elisa, being of somewhat sound mind and body (it varies), not acting under duress or undue influence (unless you count the impending sense of overall doom and destruction from general anxiety disorder), and fully understanding the nature and extent (or lack thereof) of my property, do hereby declare this document to be my Last Will and Testament, and hereby revoke any and all other wills and codicils heretofore made by me and written on a napkin or paper plate or in my old seventh-grade science journal. 

General Instructions

If I am on life support, please pull the plug in the following scenarios:

1. I can no longer drink iced lattes and the hospital administration passes a unanimous vote that I may not consume them intravenously for liability reasons. 

2. Realizing it was a scam all along, I let my health insurance lapse and was hit by an uninsured motorist. 

3. The Kardashians are still on television. 

If I am married (presumably because I hid my real personality until after the wedding) please tell my husband that I love him even if I clearly married him for his money. 

If I am single please contact Scott Eastwood and present him with an airbrushed and photoshopped photo of myself and kindly let him know that I would have gladly pretended to enjoy the outdoors and the beach for just one night with him. 

Funeral Instructions

Please move my body parts so that I appear to be “voguing” for all eternity before rigor mortis sets in and l am just as awkward in death as I was in life. Other acceptable poses are the pudica (see Botticelli’s The Birth of Venus) or Odalisque (reclining), although this will require a special chaise lounge-esque casket. 

Please shellack some color on my nails so they look decent for once and very liberally apply hair color to my most stubborn greys. 

I prefer to be buried in a Dior Haute Couture bar jacket suit. Please crowdsource funds amongst my friends and family in the hopes they will not be cheap when it comes to my final wishes as off-the-rack will not suffice. 

During the funeral procession, please play the soundtrack for Beverly Hills Cop and Back in Black by ACDC. If Franki Valli outlives me and anyone knows him or his booking agent (maybe he is on cameo) please request he sing Sherry or Ronnie or Dawn but change the lyrics to “Elisa”. 

Disposition of Property

I leave my treadmill (someone please wipe off the vomit stains), two kettlebells, and one unopened jar of protein powder to my trainer. 

I leave my unfinished screenplay to my friend Erica. Please hire someone decent to finish it. Preferably Mel Brooks. Peter Bogdanovich can direct. I’ve always wanted the two of them to collaborate. 

I would like to Donate my Christian Louboutin collection back to Christian for his archives. If he doesn’t want them, please donate them to “needy sexy people,” because that is what Blanch Devereaux would do.  

Please donate any artwork I was not forced to sell in order to keep up my lavish lifestyle (as I was living beyond my means) to the Baltimore Museum of Art. I know Baltimore sucks but the art museum is their one shining beacon of light. 

Please give my accountant my drawers full of old receipts and books I never read but bought to look intelligent. 

Please give my sister the passwords for my Prime and Netflix subscriptions so that she can watch them before they run out. Also please can someone figure out my passwords for my Prime and Netflix subscriptions. 

Can somebody please lay out all my socks and see if there are any actual matching pairs still in existance. 

I give my mom my Airmiles and bottle of Dramamine. It’s okay if it already Expired. She never believed in expiration dates on medication. Please also give my mom any old Nordstrom notes you find lying around my apartment. It’s also okay if these already expired as Nordstrom promises to still honor them. I don’t believe them but let’s see. 

Postscripts

I will be haunting several of the people who were shitty to me throughout my lifetime. I will, however, not respond to any seances or Ouija board requests. You will know when it’s me. 

Epstein didn’t kill himself. 

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