Sunday, August 14, 2005

Ok, so I was sulking...

...wouldn't you? I just realised that not everyone on this blog actually know me, so I'd like to apologise for calling ALL of you wimps...

Fact remains... and it's quite an ironic one... that not so long after I joined this blog, I was diagnosed with a rare type of cervical cancer, and even writing it here feels kinda weird because I know how weird it is for people dealing with other people who have (semi)terminal diseases such as this. I'm not writing any of this for sympathy or empathy or any effect at all, I'm just writing because this is what I would have done even if I wasn't sick. In a way I guess I'm hoping to get a 'normal' or 'honest' response from people in cyberspace, because I don't get it in physical interaction. And of course because we were on the topic to start with... although, not many of us for that matter... what's the matter? Why have only so few people contributed?

It might seem a little morbid to try and entice you all to contribute to this topic in spite of your not having done so before, but I'm going to try anyway. It just seems such a serendipitous event, the existence of this blog (well, for me anyway), that I would be foolish to not respond to it. SO, I'd really LOVE to hear (without ruining the comical angle one is prone to take) what your take is on dying. More precisely, if you KNEW you were going to die, how would you choose for it to happen? What would the things be that you'd do once you knew? Would you fight to stay put and why? I'd really love to know your take on it...


Thursday, August 11, 2005

You are all a bunch of WIMPS!

It's been FOUR MONTHS since I've been here, and almost two since I heard that I've probably been moved to the front of the cue on this particular subject we're discussing... and what, not even one comment??? Don't you all think that the deafening silence is somehow more bizarre than whatever your first thought was? Like maybe "Damn Mikki, what bloody diet have you been on??", or maybe "It's been a total pain in the ass knowing you, but it looks like we might not be tortured for much longer..." or maybe "yeah baby, are you trikki enough to get out of this one?" or even better "Where can I get the morphine from?" That's what I wanna know. Now please, don't you all scurry for my ashes ok?

Wednesday, May 04, 2005

Fantasy vs Reality

OK, if we're going for the fantasy death (and this might sound completely and utterly sad, mad or utterly ridiculous) I'd love to go out in a manner that suggested I'd died, but in fact I'd just evolved to a higher plane of existence and reappeared as a huge glowing angelic being that would quite frankly leave everyone awe stricken - for about a second anyway, til some other fucker worked out how to do it as well.

If I'm being realistic in my fantasy death it'd probably be the completely dull and prosaic dying in my sleep an old and content man having lived a rich and fulfilling life.

If I'm being absolutely realistic, I'll probably choke on my own vomit or be stabbed by a lunatic during a hectic night out. Or die of some embarrasing ailment, like catching a new and unidentified virus that makes you lose control of your bodily functions before you die. Knowing my luck they'd name the virus after me and years in the future teenagers could snigger at the ignominious manner of my passing.

Thursday, April 14, 2005

Die baby Die!

Well. Much to my irritation, I've become an involuntary prisoner of the belief that death doesn't result in a blissful nothingness, an impenetrable darkness that leads nowhere - no, IS nowhere! - a kind of vacuum that doesn't really exist. uh-uh... No, rather I've been tortured by the belief that those 21grams your body loses when you peg, must, by all scientific evidence, go SOMEWHERE. Now, not to go on too much about how I don't believe in heaven or any of that bull, the point I'm getting to is that because I strongly suspect that death might just not be the end of it all, dying becomes just another anguishing step towards who-knows-what (and-who-cares-anyway). The logical conclusion therefore is to make it as much fun as possible!

That brings us to fun... Oh dear. In light of such an important event in ones existence, it seems that a lot, if not most of the things you normally categorise under "fun" are indeed not worthy of that description. Sky-diving? No. Spending time with good friends? Blech! Dancing? Nooo. Laughing? Driving a new car? Spending a million bucks? Bungi jumping? White river rafting? Diving? Racing a F1? HAVING SEX??? No, no, no, no, no! They all seem to fall way short of such grand expectations. Well, for me anyway. I guess for some it might be one of them. You'd have asked yourself "how have I ever had the most fun in my life?" and "how could I possibly improve on it?" Ha! I choose therefore to die of an overdose of morphine lying on a grassy knoll atop a high, high mountain somewhere where it's not too cold, and not too hot, seeing fabulous stuff going on in the clouds, laughing my ass off at nothing in particular, preferably with you Stu.

Weird phobias No. 423

Ceiling Fans. That's my destiny.

It must be something to do with my nascent distrust of engineering standards, but everytime I'm under a ceiling fan, I'm thinking about how thoroughly it was attached to the ceiling, whether or not the installer was having an off day / doing drugs / suffering through a painful breakup / just plain nasty. It also strikes me that if you're in a hotel or apartment complex, the lowest bidder probably got the ceiling fan contract. I do understand that it would be detrimental to their future sales to have a customer beheaded by the whirling dervish of death - but maybe they figure these things in like a car company deciding to recall a model only after .x percent of fatal crashes.

I don't want to persuade anyone to join my nasty little phobia support group, and in the interests of full disclosure, just let me state that I have recently installed ceiling fans in my house.

Monday, April 11, 2005

There's a wall out there somewhere...

I have a recurring vision of myself hitting a brick wall at such high velocity that my body is pulverized, like a great big grasshopper smashed onto the windshield of a pickup truck. I don’t know why this vision occurs to me, nor can I control it. It just happens, suddenly and frequently. I don’t know if this is a vision of how I will die, or a visual manifestation of feeling out of control. But it’s interesting to me that I’m not falling in this vision. I’m flying. And then splat. The vision ends with a sound, rather than an image: a barely audible breath – exhaled – like a soft sigh of relief.

I don’t want to know death. I’m content in my ignorance of it. When my time comes, I will have to be pushed out of this womb of Earth amid curses and screams. It will be painful and it will be messy. I will not be delivered peacefully into the arms of oblivion. I will be gasping for my first breath of eternity and kicking any and all who are there to receive me.

Tuesday, April 05, 2005

Assassinate me

I want to be assassinated. A single bullet from a lone gunman (not necessarily on a grassy knoll) entering my skull and painting the surroundings an interesting colour called hint of brains.

My reasoning: Being assassinated would assume that someone thought me and my rather subversive thoughts important enough to do something about. I would have to be famous - this wouldn't be a random act of violence, you understand. Rather, it would be the result of careful panning, lots of money, secretive meetings between powerful people behind closed doors,, expensive, state-of-the-art ordnance, false passports, payoffs, the mob, whatever.