My death will be an event.
Televised, if I have it my way. Few, if any, people will be allowed to in-person-witness the unwholesome and yet entirely erotic madness of me physically turning myself inside-out.
I don’t expect to die an interesting death.
There’ll have been hospitals first. Illness. Surgeries, maybe. Getting used to daily pain and the slow dimming. And I’ll have held on, fought for life like I’ve always fought for everything.
And one day, I’ll think: oh. It’s alright really. I can let go. And I’ll stop fighting and go down into it, and let the waters close over my head.
The good news is that you don’t have to do anything to die. All you do is stop doing.
Death is a club that will take anyone as a member. It doesn’t discriminate or judge. If you die, you can get in. I’d like to be able to say that I would never belong to a club that would have me as a member, but in this, it’s mandatory. At least there are no club dues.
See you inside.
I always wanted to die in a dramatic way, the kind of way when people thought of me they’d shake their heads and say, “Fuck. She was such a sweet girl. How could she do that to herself?” Maybe I’d step out into a busy street and get crushed and torn to pieces by a speeding garbage truck. Maybe I’d go Virginia Woolf and drown myself, possibly in the apartment swimming pool wearing a purse full of dumbbells. Maybe I’d somehow come upon a hidden apothecary, purchase a bottle of arsenic, make arsenic brownies, and consume them until my last breath. Something so ridiculous that everyone would be too damned curious about my capabilities of killing myself in such a creative way that they’d forget about the why.
But being that I am me and that I’ve tried to meet my peril at least twice before, I’m consigned to accept that Death doesn’t want me while I’m young and supple and still worth a fuck. My fate is to die as an old, wrinkly-skinned, droopy-faced woman comfortable in my bed.