I don’t know if it’s some kind of mental problem, or just because I am a morbid-ass-bitch, but I think about death a lot.
If I haven’t heard from someone in a while? I assume they are dead. If the phone rings after 8 pm? Yeah – gotta be a call about someone dying horribly. SB takes more than 2.5 hours to do his weekly lunch at his favorite bar? Oh… yeah… he’s TOTALLY lying in a mangled heap of Miata on the side of the road.
The slightest thing out of the ordinary… I jump straight to “Oh My God – They’re DEAD!”
Oddly enough, though, given my creepifying constant death-conclusion-jumping… Death is one of those things that I am not particularly afraid of.
Oh, sure… yes, I fear dying horribly, or painfully, or in a slow, debilitating way… but the actual “death” part itself, well, sounds fairly peaceful and so much akin to my very favorite activity – sleep – that, well, I’m just OK with it. Also, I think maybe it’s something to do with the fact of my not-giant ego, that the idea of me no longer existing doesn’t seem like the worst thing on the planet.
Of course, if the big-three monotheists are correct, then I am going straight to hell to burn for eternity for not believing in them. But, since I am mostly athiest, kinda agnostic, and, at BEST, a Deist – well, I just can’t get too fussed about it.
OK – so that kind of went off on a tangent, when what I meant to talk about in this post was the fact that, hey – everyone here on the planet earth – we all go out the same way. Everybody dies.
(You think THAT would make a good children’s book? Like “Everybody Poops”?)
It’s the common denominator. Some things might push it off for a while, but nothing is going to stop it.
On that cheery note…
This was supposed to be a post about people all the time interfering in other people’s lives “for their own good” or “for their health” – but I went and got all tangent-y and just rambled on about death instead. I’ll get to my original thought in a later post then.