“Well, I have my rights, sir” by Sasha at 49th Parallel

Monday October 26, 2015 at 49th Parallel
5 minutes
The Lorax
Dr. Seuss

There once was an old man named Fred
Who wished that he was dead
He asked for the poison
And he asked for a gun
So he could shoot himself in the head

There was once a woman called Bea
Who wished she hadn’t lived past three
She saw terrible things
In the house where she lived
And chose…
Not to be

There was once a doctor named Ted
He often had songs in his head
He helped his patients
If they wanted to leave
And always slept snug in his bed

“Die this way” by Julia on the 505 going west

Tuesday, April 21, 2015
5 minutes
from a song on the radio

I haven’t figured out how I want to go. Some might say that’s a very good thing. It’s morbid, I suppose, to dream up what the best way to leave this earth is. If death is like life, then it should be my choice. It should be for me. But death is not like life, or it wouldn’t have a different name. Death is not for us. It’s for those that have to bury our bodies, spread our ashes, visit mausoleums, script out pretty eulogies. If it were just for me, then a shot to the head would have fit nicely. Something dramatic, quick, loud, messy. It would have been a nice match. But it’s not just for me. And so going peacefully in my sleep is also off the table. People don’t do well when death sneaks in and swoops down and silently exits. People want to know that it’s there so they can bring the right flowers, or the right last words.