You died with Soulseek running in the background and you didn't even have the decency to toggle away.

Of course people kept on leeching your files. Remember the guy you formed an unlikely friendship with after he downloaded Crosby vs. Cosby: Drunk Stage Banter Mashup from you but it turned out to be brutal Chechen slave porn? But he totally dug it anyway?

He just wanted to catch up. He'd had a bit too much to drink, or maybe not enough, and he had some things to get off his chest. That little bird in the corner of your screen, flashing and flashing. The Fuck Were You? He was reaching out to you man, moments after he'd just punched his poor mother in the face for telling him to how to look for a job; that maybe he needs to set his standards a little lower. You were his Internet go-to guy. His fucking pylon. Way to go and be dead and make him feel like a miserable jackass with his text just sitting there without so much as a LOL in response. Real considerate.

* * *

At first you just slumped back in your comfy office chair, the one you found outside your dad's apartment building last Spring, with all vegetation sprouting from the padded armrests. Problem with that chair, as you know, was it had a tendency to sudden fits of wonkiness. Fubs, that forty-pound diabetic train wreck of a cat your ex girlfriend ditched you with, didn't take long to make his mark around the swivel with Oh God--even by body waste standards that stuff was rank. When he was done he kind of fell into it, bumping the chair and throwing you into a mouthful of keyboard.

You had a posthumous flashback to Ethan Hawke in the film Gattaca, delicately tending to his workspace with one of those little things dentists like to piss your mouth off with. Ethan had it perfect; pristine. There were always going to be regrets after death. Why for the love of God couldn't you at least kept things on the fringe of sanitary.

That brown stuff was on everything. On the keys, between the keys; the texture of earwax sprinkled with little flakes of food and fingerskin. Your tongue was touching that shit, just in case you wanted to know, and recent research shows that those germs are dirtier than a Puerto Rican's asshole stuffed with Scottish cuisine left chillin on the beach. Maybe it was OK for you, being dead and all, but your mother had to kiss that cheek at the funeral. Those jowls that had been pressed up against filthy bits of plastic for three days. Every time you jerked off and didn't wash your damn hands. That's what your mother was kissing.

* * *

When they found you, your corpse was competing with the smell of decomposing cat. Your hideous brother moved in days later, took most of your stuff, and used your Soulseek account to steal your Internet Girlfriend. Yes, the really hot one from Serbia that loved a bunch of your favourite bands, but not so many as to make chatting about music a bore. Dude, why didn't you just close that shit down, you weren't even downloading anything. There were always going to be regrets after death.

That Christmas she caught a plane over and your brother got to make love to her sweaty fat guy style. She was the first girl to tell him not to wear a t-shirt when they did it, despite his saggy rolls. They met your parents for Boxing Day where he told them a story about a Google Image Search he found when he first moved in for Gene Wilder Money Shots that you had left open right there like he was proud of it. Your parents took the news initially in silence, your father later commenting that it cleared things up a lot.