Delete my Tinder when I’m dead. No, I’m not planning to kick it anytime soon, but goodness forbid I get clipped by an Uber, come down with a rare infection, or — ironically enough — get chopped into itty-bitty human raviolis by a Tinder bro. I just want to be prepared. Do you even realize how many dead people you must be swiping on on Tinder?

Don’t half-ass it. Don’t just delete the app off my phone and think your work is done. If you do that, my profile will still be out there haunting the popped collars and half-chubs of the app-dating universe. Go into my account settings. Scroll down. Keep scrolling. Keeeeep scrolling. All the way down past the little flame logo at the bottom. Boom. Delete Account. It’s going to ask you if you want to PAUSE MY ACCOUNT. Do not fall into that trap. Do not be blinded by the larger, redder button. Select the more demure grey link at the bottom, Delete My Account. It will ask you why, choose what you think is best. I guess you could select “other” and let them know I’m dead. Or you could select “I want a fresh start,” because I don’t know if there is life after love, and maybe there is even love after life.

Actually, for good measure, clear out my profile first. Delete the “about me” section. Erase that quippy little blurb with the pedal to the medal, your thumb holding down your backspace key. “I don’t drink booze, but I’m down to get craft sodas at the bar & make out.” Cute when I wrote it, right? Criiiingeworthy now. I can feel it growing outdated, embarrassing. People will be getting all their liquids through IVs, and they’re going to swipe past this archaic weirdo. I bet they’d burn me at the stake if I wasn’t already dead! And that’s not even the end of it, if you scroll down further: “Craft soda isn’t the only craft I like, let’s do something with our hands!” I hope they have drink and draws in hell. Delete it all.

That’s just the beginning of it. My photos, oh I ache with presumptive shame over those photos. First off, how mortifying to have my age continually tick up and up and up while my youthful visage remains unlined. Who do I think I am? A fringe attractive vampire cousin character from Twilight? Or worse, a skeevy older lady who uses young photos to dig her claws into baby cubs. You need to delete my photos one by one. That picture of me in the pink bikini on the beach at Coney Island is a perfect balance of adorable, AND HOT, now, but it will be perfectly grotesque once sea levels rise and swallow all six boroughs. Me with my friend’s, cousin’s, sister’s, boyfriend’s dog? Amazing bait for “sensitive” men now, but will be super unseemly when all of the dogs have revolted against their owners and started their own societies. How dreadful to have a vestige of an outdated form of sentient animal captivity proudly displayed in my profile. Me wearing that slogan t-shirt at that march holding that sign for “women’s rights”? What rights! They will be banging down my door trying to arrest me for speaking outside of my station. Not goooood babes. Also, I am wearing clothes in like all of my photos which is ABSURD and TACKY when you think about the fact that we’ll all be banging off each other in bubble wrap suits in the next 20 years.

Now that all of those icky, yucky, vestiges of yore are gone, you can go ahead and delete it.

Oh wait, actually, first can you unmatch with my 342 matches all named Steven, Todd, or Chris? Don’t forget to unmatch with that seven-man intramural kickball team that shares a profile either.

Ok great, now that is done, you can ACTUALLY go ahead and delete it.

Well, all that’s left now is to clear out and delete my other dating profiles. Don’t worry. It will be quick! I don’t have a lot. Just Bumble, Christian Mingle, J-Swipe, Soda Sweethearts, 7s Only — the official app for above average almost hotties, OKCupid, HelloCupid, OhHellNoCupid, To Catch A Date, Bagels & Butts, Horny Middle Managers, and Zoosk.