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.