Like most males over thirty I sometimes imagine my own death…
One day I realized that I’ll probably die in a bed, approaching 80, the sheets tucked in firmly by a loving woman at my side. While the loving-woman-at-my-side-part really excites me and makes me very happy, the part where I die in my bed is nothing short of depressing.
I don’t want my death to be boring. I don’t want it to be meaningless. I don’t want it to be messy.
Dying like a man, that’s what I want. Dying hunting in the woods. Dying fighting wild animals with my fists. Dying smiling into the clear sky above me. And when I’m gone I want my remains to be returned to the Earth. I’d like to be eaten by scavenging rodents and maggots and flies. A clean death that means something.
But it’s very unlikely that I’ll die like a man. I write books and I write code, sitting on my ass all the time. The greatest danger I face in my life is buying drugs from suspicious dealers.