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I must be getting old because all I can seem to think about
these days is death.
Yeah this is going to be another
one of those entries, so if a rambling diatribe about mortality isn’t what you’re
looking for in a weekend, you might want to duck out now. It’s fine. I’ll just
tell myself you’re going to the bathroom and you’ll be right back.
So I’ve been reading “The Hunger
Games” recently and watching “Six Feet Under.” Come to think of it, maybe the
reason I’m thinking about death so much isn’t because I’m getting old and gray,
but because of my pop culture selections.
Maybe I need to spend some time
with The Wiggles.
Anyway, so reading “The Hunger
Games” in particular got me thinking about how I would go out if I were
squaring off against 23 other tributes in a politically-orchestrated fight to
the death.
And that quickly spread to how I would
die in a variety of other pop culture scenarios.
One
common theme? I’m pretty sure I’ll almost always die in the least glamorous, noble
or interesting way possible. In a way that no one will remember or write songs
about.
If they
do remember it, it will only be because the way I died was so stupid and pointless
that parents will use it as a cautionary tale about the dangers of mediocrity.
