In the end of it all, lying on my deathbed (or under the wheels of a train, squashed on the ground next to a billion-story building, etc.), and welcoming the sweet embrace of death, I will look back on my life, and all that I’ve accomplished. Making someone’s day, perhaps, or walking in the supermarket and having a small child think, “I want to be like her when I grow up,” like I always used to; I will take pride in the small things that made living worthwhile, like winning $50 in a webcomic contest.

Then, upon my reflection, I might burst with pride that some random chick had my name tattoo’d on her mammary glands.