A local as-yet-unrecognized child prodigy, 8, cried herself to death after her parents wouldn’t let her have just one more packet of Gushers before bed. She loved Nancy Drew books, the movie Harriet the Spy, and her unicorn wallpaper.
If she hadn’t died, she would have been the most famous author/ astronaut to ever live. Maybe she would have been a guest star on All That and held hands with Josh Server.
“I always like-liked her,” the boy she had a crush on said as he sobbed, swearing he’d never love again.
The best writer in, at least, her grade, 11, died of embarrassment after a group of popular girls scooted closer together instead of letting her sit at their table during lunch hour. Had she lived, she would have owned her own house with a swimming pool, and those girls most certainly would have regretted making her cry in the bathroom.
She bequeaths the contents of her notebooks to her young English teacher, the only person who like, “gets” her, for post-mortem publishing and massive success. She is survived by her totally clueless parents and the constant whining and crying of her blond baby sister.
Intrepid teenage journalist, 16, perished when her grandfather let her behind the wheel of his silver Mercedes Benz, without her parents knowing, the day before her driver’s test.
Her numerous online friends deleted her Xanga and scrubbed her Livejournal of references to slash fanfiction before her parents could find and read it. Judging from the short clips she’d had published in her local newspaper, it’s assumed that had she lived, she would have been the greatest writer since Kurt Vonnegut or Chuck Klosterman.
“She would have also definitely taken over my job when I retired,” TV’s Jon Stewart said after reading one of the comedic essays she wrote for English class.
College newspaper reporter and perpetual intern, 20, was killed when she totally Jimi-Hendrix-ed in her bed after a house party in the Boston student ghetto, Allston.
Her last article in the student newspaper was 500 words on the Diversity Club’s annual ‘Day of the Dead’ celebration in the student center. She leaves her tie-dye wall tapestry and classic rock record collection to her roommate, Kim, but only if she stops texting that horrible frat bro when she’s drunk.
She is survived by a dying basil plant and the on-again-off-again hook up she hates to admit she probably actually has feelings for.
A prolific journalist, comedian and blogger, 23, passed away after slipping and hitting her head in the shower while home alone. She was not found for three days, her mother said, because she did not have a boyfriend.
Her last tweet read, “In case my parents are wondering if improv is worth it, I just said ‘My prison nickname was Poop Dinosaur’ on stage.” Her last Tumblr reblog was a picture of a baby seal wearing a Darth Vader helmet.
She is survived by sky-high hopes and dreams she constantly bitched about, instead of appreciated, and close to a million unanswered emails.