A Big, Massive Stroke.

Ok. Fine.
So, there are those true purists; the children in adult bodies, who claim it could only end for them in a rain of gunfire and screaming poetry.

Not the case.

You're not going to die a gangster unless you're a gangster.

...and I'm not a fucking gangster.

You know what's worse than slowly withering away in a hospital bed, waiting to be consumed by either cancer or time?

Nothing.

Well, maybe getting your dick chopped of by a manacle clown with separation anxiety.
Ever notice that? This new co-dependant, always connected life that is forever purging ahead? But not forward. We are living on a stationary bike, hands grasped around a remote and blackberry.

I'm turning off my cell phone. I'm tired of being connected.

But I digress...A big, massive, fucking stroke.

That's how I want to go.

Hugs and Kisses.