- Old Age (which really means, Cancer or Heart Disease)
- Fright (this is a slow death)
- Embarrassment (oh, the horror)
- Snake Bite (romantic)
- Loneliness (just remember to "shine your teeth till meaningless" and you'll avoid this one)
Well, I count 5. Maybe that's not so many.
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Oh wait, there are THE DREADED BANAL ROADS TO MORTALITY. These are the ways I am most afraid of dying.
Choking on food. This fear, coupled with my natural inclination to binge-y-ness, increases the chance that I will die while masticating wildly. Numerous are the times I've stuck my finger down my own throat (no, I am no purger, mind you) to grab what I thought might be my death sentence. I am also prepared to give myself the Heimlich Maneuver if need be.
Obviously, dying this way is a close kin of dying of embarrassment.
Anaphalactic Shock. I have no earthly idea how to spell this. But I like that my attempt is reminiscent of galactic. Which also reminds me of the word galvanic. None of this is related, but I used to know a man named Bob Galvin. He was a bit too self-important for me to like him, but I wish I'd known the word Galvanic back then. Anyway, I recently ate "something nasty in the woodshed" or maybe it was just shellfish, and my tongue swelled (swoll?) and my face puffed and I ran as fast as my four legs could take me to the local ER. I would hate to die this way. I love food. For food to kill me is the kind of irony reserved, I hoped, for real assholes.
I hope I am not an asshole in denial.
Dying of something I've already been accused of hypochondria about. Sometimes I have chest pains. "And sometimes I have the menstrual pains real hard."
(God, I'm quoting a lot in this post. I think I better go back in and add actual quotation marks before one of my thousands of devoted readers gets the wrong idea and thinks I'm witty. No, no, my lackeys, let me promise you this. I am but a tick on the back of true wit. I burrow my head into its flesh and live off its blood until I give it Lyme disease or it burns me off with a match. It is a sour, indolent life, but someone has to live it.)Anyway, back to dying of something I've already blah blah blah. I go to doctors. That's part of my shtick. There's a Woodie Allen-ness to it, and by that I mean a sad and pathetic, self-referential, mother-obsessed, and tired. I tell them I have a pain here or there and they give me tests and say, "yeah, well, there's a little something, but don't worry about it. That will cost you $300 dollars." To which I always reply, "thank God I'm bourgeoisie white-collar trash, because I would not be able to afford your glorious bedside manner and inattention without shweet insurance and a tech job salary." To which they say, "True dat. Fork over the money, playa."
So, when I do die, how do I want to go? In a blaze of fucking glory, of course. I haven't quite worked out the particulars, because sky-diving and war make me nervous, and I can't think of other ways to die in an actual blaze of glory otherwise. Ooh, I know, I want to save someone's life and by doing so, meet my glorious demise, certain if there is an afterlife to be absolved of all my sins (I think this post alone has been proof of gluttony, pride, and anger) and welcomed into heaven with open arms. Hopefully they have improved things since the time Twain documented in Letters to the Earth. No one likes a lot of blasted harps and no sex.
