My question remains however, so I guess I need to get around to asking it and it is this: "At what point does you dying stop being a tragedy?" and there's a good reason for me to ask this question and I will get into it in the next paragraph, but if you want to just hang out in this one for a while, that's cool. I mean I'm not really getting anywhere topic-wise, but you know...maybe you need to rest your brain for a minute. (*time passes*) Hey! Kittens! Kittens are so cute it's ridiculous!! Sigh. (*another awkward pause*) Really fucking cute...
Okay. Are we all rested up? And by "we" I mean "you" because I am always at the top of my game mentally as long as I don't run out of expired cat antidepressants that my brother sold me. The thing is, if you die in your thirties, everyone is all "Gasp! No! So young!" and if you die in your forties they're all "No way! Jesus! That's terrible" and if you die when your fifty-something people are all "What a tragedy." and in your sixties they go "He should have had more time. That's too bad." so they are definitely less mournful and less likely to gasp unless they know you and that's the shit I'm talking about. By the time you're eighty, their like "He had a nice long life. " and god forbid you live to be a hundred because then everyone hates you forever for living so long.
I know I do.
I want to find that age where people are gaspy and sad and saying "Oh my god NO!" and then tell people that's how old I am forever. That way when I kick it everyone will be sad and mourning like they should be and not relieved that I'm finally dead after a lifetime of genius adventures and sexy escapades involving guerilla can-can dancers with degrees in astro-physics and riding tigers through flaming buildings and escaping temples with diamonds the size of your face tucked into my bomber jacket. They'll just be like "God took him too soon." and "Why, Why WHY???" and "Jeez, He looks a little rough for being 46. The embalmer here must be on drugs! Let's get him!" and then they burn down the funeral home and I get to go out like a viking as I wished, except instead of a flaming longboat sailing off into the sunset, it's a funeral home going up in flames because I'm a big, fat liar.
Half a dozen of one, six of your mom.