Car AccidentIf it were legal for Vegas to set odds on my manner of death (which, hey, maybe it is legal, I don’t know, I’ve never been to Vegas (and even if it isn’t legal, they are probably doing it anyway, am I right?)) I suspect they would give the best odds to the car accident. I have been in four major collisions, two with other cars: one due to snow, one due to sun, one due to excessive intoxication, and one due to the supreme idiocy inherent in being sixteen. All of these mishaps were my fault, and yet I refuse to consider myself a ‘bad driver’. My odds of being in an accident are simply higher because I drive a lot more than most people. Except for the year and half following that excessive intoxication accident in which the state of Nebraska decided I probably shouldn’t be allowed to drive. During that time, I rode a bike all over the city. And considering my recklessness in doing so, that really only made my chances of dying in a car accident that much greater.
I’m not really afraid of dying in this fashion. I’m always calm while the car is actually being crushed, smoothly steering through the impact as the windows shatter and the side panels collapse and the frame buckles and the tires squeal out in denial of their own ineffectiveness. I don’t know if this inner peace is due to the fact that I no longer believe I can die in a car accident, or because I know I will.
EbolaAlthough this may not seem like a very likely way for my life to end, I have been simultaneously fascinated and terrified by Ebola ever since I read the book The Hot Zone when I was ten years old. The book details a breakout of the Ebola virus in Reston, Virginia and goes into depth detailing the symptoms of the virus and the very painful way in which it claims its victims. I’ve read a lot of supposedly ‘scary’ books over the years, but The Hot Zone is the only one that ever kept me awake at night. I’m still not sure why. Did I expect an infected monkey to leap from my closet in the middle of the night or ambush me on the way to school the next morning, quickly biting me, laughing a maniacal monkey laugh, and then running off, its diabolical mission complete?
I rarely get sick at all, and I never go to Africa where the disease is most readily encountered, so I don’t think I have much cause to worry about Ebola. Still, this is one of the most frightening ways I can envision myself dying. I think it’s the lack of dignity in it all. It’s hard to consider that the last moments of your life, the dénouement putting everything you’ve done before into context, can consist of a sweaty, agonizing seizure during which you bleed from every orifice and vomit your melting organs out into your own lap. No thanks. Give me the car crash.
MurderThe odds of being murdered in any given year are 1 in 16,360. To me, this is not so large a number. I want a number in the millions, a number like being struck by lightning, a number like winning the lottery twice in the same lifetime. I sit in the stadium and feel the sun on my face and while everyone else is watching players warm up or ogling cheerleaders I am thinking to myself: six of these people will be murdered this year. I stand in the back at assemblies at the local elementary school where my wife works as a teacher and think, someone in this town will be murdered this year.
I’ve already had opportunities to be murdered. I’ve been robbed at gunpoint during a home invasion when my roommates and I were having a party. Most people sat silently on our couches or smoked nervously in our kitchen while the three men rummaged through the house, looking for drugs and cash. Worried that they would take my laptop with all my writing on it, I got in a shoving match with one robber in my upstairs bedroom. They must have been really reluctant to actually shoot anyone.
I’m not afraid of being the victim of a murder because it seems important, vital, compelling. It seems as though my last moments would be spent locked in a struggle to survive, and that’s pretty consistent with life as a whole and seems like a fitting way to die. For someone to want to kill you, you have to be pretty important to them. You have to matter. And even though the company might not be the best, you aren’t dying alone.
Comments (5)
I had always envisioned death for myself at my 27th year. Well here is to two more years, hopefully they're good ones.
I can't wait to find out which way it is. Keep us posted.
I'll keep my eye on the news in your area just in case it's Murder. ;)
That or Matt will hear about it... and I'll hear about it that way. That seems like the more likely way I'd find out about it... rather than scanning through the news there randomly.
a heart attack is calling my name. thanks for the hereditary high cholesterol, heart disease and diabetes mom & dad!
I've always been pretty wary about dying in a car crash, I think it's going to happen. Stay out of Connecticut, I don't want God or whoever getting eager about the whole two birds with one stone thing.