What would be a good way to die? As if there is a good way. I just hope it’s sudden and not drawn out. In my case, the toxicology report could very well reveal death by an abundance of fried cakes. Findings could also affirm that battery I swallowed when I was three, which was conclusive proof of my lasting energy.

The recurring argument whether or not lives are extended due to vitamins could be strictly hearsay. And we may face dismissal if we fail to demonstrate due diligence by eating All-Bran for breakfast when most of us really really want Dunkin Doughnuts. Our time on earth could also be significantly lowered to maybe a day if we happen to be a pesky insect that’s into flea bargaining. I can assure you that the prison life of a person charged with the capital offense of pedophilia doesn’t last much longer than that either. It’s kind of like watching the mothers who want to bump off Barney.

There is enough testimony and corroborating evidence to say that everything alive will eventually die, even with all the warning labels in the world. If pollution doesn’t kill me, surely hidden mold in spaces between the walls may do it. I have often wondered why some small birds live longer than German shepherds. Or why longevity just wasn’t in the cards for my calfskin ankle boots. You can buy a goldfish on Monday and the thing is a goner by Wednesday. Moor-slaughter is always in question, and I can voluntarily disclose that it is never premeditated. I looked into documentation describing said longevity. So this morning after I checked my pulse, and the pulse of the fourth flipping little swimmer this week, I reviewed a list of living supercentenarians just because I carry such a colossal curiosity about what lives longest. So just how much aquatic food is one supposed to put in tanks? I refuse to answer that question on the grounds that it may incriminate me.

In the case of longevity, I concluded that fossils, geoducks, zombies, the sludge sitting in my drainpipes and those buggers clinging to every surface in schools live longest. The giant barrel sponge is estimated to live 2,250,000 years. I’d probably live that long too if I was lying around a tropical Caribbean coral reef in a wetness protection program without a stress in the world. I’d like to think I’ll live as along as a bristlecone pine. And sturgeons live long as well. Not to be mistaken with surgeons, especially if they have to off themselves after being stricken with monster malpractice. I really want to thank my parents for making me food all those years so I wouldn’t die prematurely. Although my domestic partnership kept asking if I wanted Brussels sprouts, and I said I’d rather have a Barbie dollhouse instead. I was sworn under several oaths not to feed my veggies to the dog or they would issue me a bench warrant. But I was just following suit of my fellow sibling repeat offenders before me.

Now I can attest to the fact that the longest living defendant is the indestructible stink bug. They cause widespread damage to my tomato crop. I can trap them long enough to torture them, poison them, shower them with acid water, run them over a few times with the lawn mower, douse them with lighter fluid and torch them, use blunt force with a hoe, and try to deprive them of a cushy existence within my jurisdiction. No matter all my assassination attempts, I’ll plead the fifth, and still bear witness to these criminals crawling away breathing. I also learned water bears are quite resilient. Gummy bears, not so much.

I almost died today. First of all, the people at P.F. Chang’s were extremely close to murdering me when they witnessed my being in contempt of Cortaderia. I picked their graceful inflorescent grasses to take home for my very own vase viewing enjoyment. Then walking across the street after that, a car missed me by a quarter of an inch sending me into a tailspin. Guess I need to look both ways next time to avoid collateral damage and a possible death sentence. While cars go about their business on the roads, I find that crossing guards are the best counsel. I guess I had the same curiosity that killed the cat. But in closing arguments, when the almighty courtroom tells me to stay off the streets and quit picking plumy objects from public property or else, I must obey or suffer some severe penalty without ever the possibility of parole. Some inmates could get their hands on me and inflict undue hardship, in which case I would be exercising my right to remain silent, forever. I’ve seen what can happen in “Papillon,” “Midnight Express” and “Law & Order.” I’d kill myself before I ever reach jail bars.

My personal conviction is that it’s hard to even think about dying when I’m wondering when hot doughnuts will be served again at Krispy Kreme. What’s worse is the possibility of going out not knowing whether the kingdom is set up nicely with a fabulous bakery. If I have to exit this world, I want death by chocolate cronuts – those hybrid croissant doughnuts. Although I’d be happy expiring at a comedy club, so I can die laughing.

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