Death and Taxes
How do you want to die?
That’s a question I’ve been asking myself for a long time. Being an overweight, out-of-shape Hispanic with a family history of Alzheimer’s, diabetes, mental illness and what I’m sure is a host of other surprises just waiting to be discovered as I continue to age, I have a pretty good idea already what the answer to my question is: slow and painfully.
If I had a choice, though, how would I want to bite the big one? And really, I suppose I do have a choice. I could always jump the gun and pick a fight with Big Bad Leroy Brown. Apparently that’d be a pretty reliable way of taking my destiny into my own hands and picking the time, place and method of my demise. As it goes, though, I don’t particularly have a desire to be pummeled to death by the fictional creation of the late Jim Croce. In fact, there are many more ways I would rather not go out than ways I’d be OK with dying. Naturally, right?
I’d rather not drown in my own vomit, be raped to death by Charlie Sheen, have my skull sat upon by an elephant or be sucked out a dime sized hole in a spaceship. It’s not that I fear a violent death, though. If I were in charge of things regarding life and death, I’d rather go out in a blaze of glory than shuffle off the mortal coil while sleeping in a rocking chair as my cataract-filled eyes flicker under heavy lids – remembering a long life spent petting kittens and giving lollypops to grandchildren.
When it comes to my death, I dream big. I want explosions, giant monsters or carnivorous alien conquistadores involved. In other words, I want Michael Bay to direct my demise.
I don’t want to qualify for a Darwin Award, though. Even though my exact thoughts about the afterlife are a little sketchy and I’m not sure if I’ll have the capacity to be embarrassed by my own death, I don’t want to be afraid to visit the local commissary up in heaven and hear the snickering of angels mocking the fact I was eaten by a bear because I forgot to wipe properly during a camping trip and the scent of my poo-smudged butt attracted a family of hungry grizzlies.
I want a death my ancestors can be proud of — a legend they can pass down throughout the ages either as a glorious aspiration for their own lives or a whispered cautionary tale about why it doesn’t pay to be so damn heroic all the time. I don’t care — either one will do.
Despite the near constant presence of choice in our lives, though, I fear destiny will probably have a bigger role to play in my eventual death than I could ever hope to possesses on my own. More so, I fear destiny has a very distinct plan for me post-death, too. When it comes right down to it, I’m just not end of the book material.
In post-apocalyptic stories such as The Stand or The Walking Dead, there are the chosen few whose stories drive the book forward. As they make their way to the end of the tale, they come across the less than fortunate masses whose bodies litter the ditches — providing atmosphere to another’s quest. I fear that even after a non-noteworthy death, I’ll just end up just being the tone-setter to another’s glorious adventure.
Whether my corpse is the puffed-up, horribly decayed body that falls out of a car and scares the lone survivor of a plague-ravaged metropolis as he searches a tunnel for supplies or mine is the tomb that an archeologist of note dumps his equipment on while he searches for buried treasure three graves down the way, I’m just destined to be a footnote in somebody else’s story.
I promise this, though; I’ll be the damn finest footnote you’ve ever seen.
