If you're reading this, the inevitable has happened. I've stuck a knife into the old toaster you told me not to buy, which shot sparks on to the dishtowel that you said I keep too close to the stove.
The dishtowel then burst into flames, igniting one of the expired coupons sticking out of a drawer (the one you enjoyed reminding me to clean out). The fire then spread to the rest of the house, killing me because I'm on Ambien, which you told me to stop taking because I was getting too "aggressive with my snacks in bed."
Well, you don't have to worry about snorting Cheetoh dust anymore in your sleep. You have found this note because I am dead, "death by misadventure," and you are finally going through the motions of rifling through my things so you can throw it all away because I'm guessing your lady friend requires some additional space in well, frankly speaking, my house.
NOT SO FAST, my friend. I have a couple of words of advice for you.