I died two and a half years ago and thank God too. Nearly seven years with that woman after me and I don’t think I could have held her off much longer. Always fussing over me like I was hers. Brushing my coat. Dropping hints until I was worn out with it. Not my type at all, not even close. And I regret now that I never felt I could tell her why, openly. Besides, she was just too bitter. Too, what’s the word, irritated all the time. Angry. Easily pissed off. Irate over every little thing, and the longer I put her off the worse she got. Thank god for stomach cancer. I reached that last end that was my death and hallelujah I’m better off. And she should just answer an ad or something. Find a man that way because her personality isn’t going to win her any prizes. I prefer them a little more accommodating, like that one married to the heavyset singer who was another woman after me around that same time. Let’s hope he pops off young, naked for to go as he came. He would comfort my loneliness and I would entertain him with pleasures. He’s more my type. Mildhearted, you understand, loth to irk.