The last couple posts have had serious tones, so this one is intended to be a bit more lighthearted.
Upon driving back from the gym a couple hours ago, I barely avoided a traffic accident. I was driving on the inside lane through an intersection at around 30mph, and two cars ran the red light making a right turn onto my lane. The vehicles were a white G35 and a grey Benz, and they were (figures…) street racing. I swerved into the oncoming traffic to avoid hitting them and proceeded to chase them down to record their license plate. I failed to do so because they accelerated to least 80mph in a matter of seconds. Bottom line: I am okay. If I see those two drivers again, they will NOT be okay.
So, what better time to talk about when I’ll die? Clarification: what better time to talk about how I want to die?
I would love to die in the ocean. It was a pretty big possibility that night in the ocean off Mexico. Although I didn’t think too much about death that night, I was strangely calm amidst all the chaos we were in. It’ll probably be miserable becoming dehydrated and exhausted treading water until I drown, or pretty gruesome getting my lower torso eaten by sharks. Luckily, I haven’t thought that far. Note: this is a preview for my Mexico sailing story that I haven’t finished writing yet.
I would love to die in outer space. I wrote about this as part of my absurd wishes a year ago here: “I have a peculiar love for astronomy and outer space. I own a rusty reflector telescope that has not been put to use for two years — Orange County’s light pollution is to blame for that. Oh, how it would be amazing to be launched into space in my last minutes of life, and taking off the helmet to suffocate.” Astronomers will have a hard time figuring out what I am for decades; it’ll be fun keeping them confused.
I would love to die a martyr. The prideful part of me wants to fight for something righteous. To die for a cause that I sincerely believe in and be remembered forever. The side I’m fighting for will hopefully be victorious, so I go down into history books. Students will be complaining about my specific details and accomplishments for their midterm exam. An Asian Hamilton. Sweet, ain’t it?
To a lesser extent, I’d like to die saving someone’s life. An organ transplant isn’t really my thing. I was thinking more along the lines of saving someone from a burning building or pushing someone away from danger. This isn’t as “epic” of a death, and it’ll be a damn shame if I saved a hot lady. Sacrificing my life to save the earth from a Texas-sized asteroid sounds very tempting as well, but only if Billy Bob Thorton, the head of NASA, was guiding me.
In all seriousness though, my not-so-eloquent dreams (which I believe are largely manifested from my subconscious) consist of dying from plane crashes or getting stabbed.