I can't go on
I don't plan to leave a grave, or a headstone. It is my sincere desire to be cremated, and kept in a shoebox in a desk drawer owned by my daughter, so we can carry on at least one-sided conversations conveniently.
I've told her of this plan all her life; she thinks it perfectly normal. Her boyfriend thinks its creepy, but I'm sure he'll get used to it.
He got used to her, after all.
But if I had a headstone, I can think of none more fitting than this. In 100 years who's going to know who I was anyway?