See, here’s the thing: BEING dead does not scare me at all. The day I die will be the first time in my adult life I actually make it through the night without waking up because of a bad dream, or I had to pee, or because I’ve been cursed by five generations of sin, or because I didn’t pull a perfect trifecta on the genetics game, or because it was a day that ended in “Y”. That, as Hamlet once observed, is a consummation devoutly to be wished.

No, what scares the ever-loving fecal matter out of me is not “being” dead, but the preceding process of actually dying. That’s when all the nasty stuff happens. The whole “coitus interuptus” of moving the pieces on the board because you don’t want the game to end, even though you’ve already lost.

(The best chess game I ever played in my life was one I lost, against a far superior player. I pretty much knew I’d lost by the time I moved my first piece, but it was a remarkable triumph for both of us because I played so well, far beyond my skill level.)

The blessing of modern medicine is that we live so much longer. The curse of modern medicine is that we spend so much more time dying. And, no, I a m not (to the best of my knowledge) sick, or even feeling poorly. I’m just in a morbid mood.

It’s my blog, and I’ll cry if I want to.