I want to die old
◊ I want to die old, in my sleep, after I've reached the point where dying looks about as terrifying as walking out to the porch to fetch a newspaper does. Me being an atheist and all, I don't get the heaven that people of faith save up their prayer coupons for. When I die, I rot. I want to go out when that sounds like a bargain. Peace and quiet and no neighbor kids messing up my rose bushes and playing that awful music in the middle of the night? You betcha, sonny.
But I might not be so lucky. There's no guarantees against debilitating injury or sickness or senility. I'm used to being smarter than everybody else; no way no how would I settle for having a skull full of cottonwool when I get old. If it comes down to it, I'll off myself before that happens.
But the traditional methods are just so yuck. Pills don't always work, shooting yourself in the head is just too damn messy, and lethal overdoses with the whole family surrounding the bed and crying and saying "Go on your way, you can rest now" is just tacky as hell. I'm pretty sure I'd outlive any of my friends who'd be goofy enough to croon "Go into the liiiight" at me like that woman from Poltergeist while I was on my deathbead, anyway.
I wanna go out like James Dean, thin gray hair whipping in the desert wind as my Porsche screams down the pavement toward death. A truck pulls out in front of me and I'm tearing along too fast to turn, too fast to dodge, and wham! Up I go in a burst of flame, engine parts flying, shreds of floral-print dressing gown rocketing through the air, knitting needles and balls of yarn exploding away from the crash.
There won't be a viewing, of course, and I'll be cremated. I'm not too concerned about where my ashes will end up, since I'm pretty sure they'll be lost during the enormous party that will be thrown for my mourners. I'll have set aside a few grand for that shindig.
There'll be an open bar, an obnoxiously large framed portrait of me flipping off the camera, tacky tropical flowers, and plenty of plastic lawn flamingos. My friends and family will read clever eulogies not necessarily about me ("We are gathered here to mourn the death of Marty the hamster. He was a good hamster ...") and tell hilarious stories about my past antics.
Everybody will get hammered. People will recall how well I told dead baby jokes or gave head, depending on the natures of their associations with me. They will weep openly as they reminisce about my stellar taste in movies and my Photoshop skills, and they will fondly remember how I sucked at darts and pool but kept playing anyway, mostly because I liked drinking.
"She loved her Camaro," they'll say, "even though I don't think she washed it once in the years she had it." They'll laugh about my hostility toward children and they'll chain-smoke in memory of me.
And everything will go precisely according to my plan, because there will be a squad of lawyers attending the party, handing $200 bucks in cash to anyone who'll pick up the karaoke mike and say nice things about me in front of everyone.