Farewell, Husk

This was an assignment in my Creative Writing class. Basically, it's a letter from my spirit/soul to my body, as I'm leaving it at the moment of death. Yes, it is very weird.

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Let’s be clear; you are not a person.
You have no soul. You are a simple husk; a vehicle for my spirit. And yet, as a vehicle, you were the best I could have asked for.

Remember that time we kicked a door in? That was fun.
How about the time we walked face-first into that wooden board? Yeah, sorry about that. I appreciate you not getting a concussion, by the way.

I’d always wanted you to be taller, that’s true. But you’re not exactly short, and I’m glad for that. You were a bit susceptible to allergies, but hey, that’s not so bad. You never gave me cramps, and fought off illnesses as if your life depended on it. (sorry; morbid humor)

I didn’t always treat you well, but I suppose could have done worse. Your lungs are free of black, and your brain is still intact. In-betwixt this world and the next, my memories are dim. Did you get better as time went on? I hope so.

Farewell, soulless friend. I hope that what few electrons still fire between your brain cells will think kindly of me.
(By the way, I told them I wanted you cremated. Sorry.)