Death has always been fascinating to us as living, breathing, undead people. Some are terrified of the concept of The End, while others welcome it with open arms.

Those lacking a semblance of intelligence believe that after we die, our souls are lifted out of our bodies to a decadent white cloud, where cabs and hookers are always available, and U2 doesn’t exist.

Whatever you believe happens to our bodies and souls after we pass—whether that be Celestial glory, or being turned into nutrient-rich mulch for some guy’s pot plants—you don’t really know what to expect. Somehow, I don’t think making it onto this website crossed your mind, until now.

My Death Space is a website dedicated to connecting articles (generally about horrific suicides, murders and accidents) and obituaries to the deceased individual’s Myspace or Facebook page. Though many of the pages are now defunct, morbid curiosity keeps you clicking along, silently hoping that the next link will be a a working, glorious display of…what, exactly?

When you read about Brett Kandra, 24, who was mauled to death by a bear, and then click on the link to his FB page, what are you hoping you see? Wall comments expressing significant loss and heartbreak, or people berating Brent for trying to feed a fucking bear? If you’re me, a little bit of both. Unfortunately, Brent’s page is private, so you’re not getting much out of that one.

Once in a blue moon, you find a page that is active. Take for example, Rachel Walker, a young girl that apparently overdosed on opiates. Her Myspace page, strewn with subtle “cries for help,” is also abundant with comments from her various friends and family, expressing their grief through a tired social-media platform. As expected, random people without a clue as to what happened, insert their “Hey, what’s up?” or “Check out my new band!” comments, amidst the genuine despair-stricken ones.

Her Facebook page, has activity on it from as recent as Monday of this week. Some of her friends leave comments as if she is just on a brief hiatus, while others talk about visiting her grave soon. Sometimes you come upon an interesting gem where blame occurs and arguments ensue. All on a dead girl’s Facebook.

While reading these, you almost feel privileged to be able to do so, and then slightly creepy; like you just got caught watching your grandma take a shower with a half-chub. Whether privileged or creepy, it’s interesting to watch the dynamics of loss unfold, and makes you question your own methods of dealing with death.

It also makes you reconsider the kind of friends you have. If I were to have a Facebook page at the time of my death, I can only imagine the kind of comments my friends would leave. This reason alone is enough to start looking for new ones.

So, now not only do you have to worry about a will, how you want to be disposed of, and every other specification of your death, you now have to be concerned about your posthumous public internet image, too. Isn’t dying supposed to be the easy way out?