Ralph Pullins

I want to die laughing. I imagine it, this big final guffaw, watching a video of someone falling down or being attacked by a goose, just this terminal laughter, a giggle or a wheeze, that's the way to go out. We're all dying, just some of us faster than others, some are torn away and some drift off, but the destination is the same for each and every soul on this beautiful miserable planet.  Whether it be by accident or murdered by time, we are all on the same ride. I want to be taken away by the Death of the Discworld, like I imagine Terry Pratchett did, the classic hooded skeleton, blue fire eyes.  On the Discworld, you pretty much always get what you expect; the afterlife is what you believe it to be.  I imagine Sir Terry, wherever he ended up, laughing his face off, turning his brilliance on the world itself, holding a funhouse mirror up to distort images into strange shapes, recognizable, but seen from a different perspective. Godspeed Sir Terry. Mind how you go, sir. I wan...

You don't have to do anything you don't want to do.  All that shit you hate, all the working and the laundry and the oil changes and the lawn maintenance, the picking up of dog shit, the attending of weddings and godawful graduation parties, the dentist appointments, the trip to the fuckin' vet to get your beloved family pet put down.  You don't have to be a father, you don't have to be a husband.  You don't have to set your alarm, get up before the sun, you don't have to smile in the face of that asshole customer, the unreasonable bag of shit that insists that he told you that he wanted his dressing on the side, even though he didn't and he knows it and you know it, and, holy shit, this has ruined his whole fucking day, his week, his life.  He wanted low-fat ranch and you put on full flavor and now he hates you and everybody you love.  You forgot to hold the croutons and now he wishes you had cancer.  But you smile and hold your tongue, because the fuck...