I've been thinking a lot about death lately. Not because I've already reached the statistical halfway point in my life. Not because the cigarettes I constantly smoke make that statistical halfway point actually a three quarter way point. Not because my devouring of fried food, avoidance of exercise, and functional alcoholism make that three quarter way point actually a nine tenth way point. No, the reason my thoughts have been focused on the expiration of existence is that I'm considering writing a living will.
According to Wikipedia, a living will "covers specific directives as to the course of treatment that is to be taken by caregivers should the principal be unable to give informed consent." Essentially, it allows me to call the shots if something terrible happens.
I need a living will because I want to be able to speak, even when I can only drool. I want power, even when I can't get a hard-on. I don't want anyone else making a decision about whether I should live or die. That's my call. If I can't shit on my own, I at least want to determine if I should breathe on my own.
For the most part, I'm going to opt in favor of pulling the plug. I'm lazy. There aren't many situations where it's easier to live than to die. Working isn't easier than collecting unemployment. Sitting through a post-1988 Eddie Murphy movie isn't easier than leaving the theater. Pleading guilty isn't easier than staying on house arrest in your $17 million dollar apartment (unless your name is Bernie Madoff, apparently).
So, my living will basically will be a list of situations that would make my life no longer worth living. For example, if I'm brain dead (not just from too many roofies), I'd like to be euthanized. Or, if I somehow become paralyzed Stephen Hawking-style, I'd like to be wheeled into traffic (despite what I may type with that little straw joystick thing). Or, if I'm in the late stages of Parkinson's disease, I'd like to be shot before I start making TV specials about optimism like Michael J. Fox.
Here are some other instances where, in my living will, I will ask to be put out of my misery:
- If I get post-nasal drip.
- If I become lactose intolerant. Seriously, if I can't eat cheese, I don't want to live.
- If I'm mauled by a chimp.
- If the government takes away the bonus I was promised for the work I did at AIG.
- If I go bald and shave my head like every fucking schmuck that lost his hair at 25, but still thinks he's tough.
- If The Jonas Brothers or Miley Cyrus or Fallout Boy release an album that is touted as, "actually very good" or "a well received departure".
- If I lose my ability to discern between good underground music and crappy music that was cleverly placed in the underground by corporate entities just so hipsters would be under the false impression that it is good underground music.
- If soon, dogs don't reach the next step in the evolutionary maturation process by walking upright.
- If I'm forced to attend an America's Next Top Model audition.
- If I find Jesus, if I start going to temple again, or if I even entertain the thought of hearing more about Scientology.
- If, after Bush's wrongs are a distant memory, I start saying that he was actually very intelligent (like everybody does with Nixon).
- If I start complaining that Obama is socializing our country. I've been to Cuba. We are not and we will never be a socialist country. Trust me!
- If I have a child who is a methface or a wideclops.
- If the press doesn't stop covering the Octomom or Nancy Grace doesn't shut the fuck up about the Tot Mom.
- If I become a lawyer.
- If I start wearing Dad Jeans or my wardrobe is strictly comprised of Tommy Bahama patterned shirts.
- If I start enjoying musical theater.
- If I wake up after a long night of drinking with this lady next to me.
- If I have to return to using MySpace.
- If whatever happened to Seal's face happens to my face.
You get the picture! Nobody should have to suffer through the aforementioned plagues. If you're my care giver, don't fuck around! Heed my living will. At the first site of anything on my list, pull the plug. If I'm not on life support, put me on it, then pull the plug. If that won't kill me, call Dr. Kevorkian's disciples and get them to do their murderous magic. If that doesn't work, put me in the ghetto wearing a racist sandwich board, like in Diehard 3. Or hire Fletch or that guy from No Country for Old Men. Just do what you gotta do. Or, don't. That's your call.