In Memoriam

Ichabod Crumbleigh

Last email marked "urgent." Wasn't.

Born	a chilly day in 1969, probably
Died	2042, rather abruptly
Cause	was ambushed by a group text they never should have opened
Survived by	An unclaimed gift card of unknown balance

In an exit as unannounced as most of their arrivals, Ichabod Crumbleigh, aged 73. They had a strict personal policy of never admitting when the GPS was right. They are survived by a car that never quite passed inspection.

Guestbook — Letters to the Departed

1. Iris X. writes:

“RIP to the one who always "knew a guy."”
2. Frank I. writes:

“RIP to the last one who could make the whole room laugh on command.”
3. Bev T. writes:

“Never a dull moment. Except now, apparently.”
4. Quinton Z. writes:

“They were the group chat's unofficial mayor. Rest easy, sir.”
5. Toby W. writes:

“Still can't believe they never returned my drill.”
6. Toby R. writes:

“Bold strategy, leaving before the group vacation.”
7. Perry U. writes:

“I'll never forget them arguing with a self-checkout machine for ten minutes.”
8. Janice U. writes:

“RIP to the last person who remembered everyone's coffee order.”
9. Iris F. writes:

“They said this town wasn't big enough for both of us. Guess they won.”
10. Joyce B. writes:

“Their last words to me were "hold my drink." I'm still holding it.”
11. Roger X. writes:

“I'll miss our weekly arguments about absolutely nothing.”
12. Gerald D. writes:

“They said they'd slow down eventually. Bold of them to lie like that.”
13. Kevin O. writes:

“Every group chat needs a chaos gremlin. We just lost ours.”

Ichabod Crumbleigh

Guestbook — Letters to the Departed

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