Thinking the whole leaving a good looking corpse ideal will never apply to me. Saddled with the legacy of whatever Ukrainian gypsy preternatural, vodka and yogurt doused, longevity ritual my ancestors performed on a past planet alignment. Blasted hearty genes. Coupled with the fact I had a more nutritious formative years existence than my great depression weened grandparents, who are, all four, still kickin. I'm staring down the barrel of an octogenarian future cannon. They'll just waive off my body donation to science request and spark my ivory prune corpse.

Freak accidents! Well, of course the unforseen tragedies that lop off a life in it's youth could strike me down. Positive it'll be some iron girder through the face type deal. Reiterating the notion that my empty shell won't be purty.

Death frightens me not. In fact, I desire to have a cyanide tooth installed. Cause, paralysis and endless pain does scare the gravy out of me. An almost rapacity exists within me to possess the ability to end my life whenever necessary. Twisted up like a cigar sandwiched between a subway car and the platform. Knowing that, even if it were possible to save me, my life would be miserable. Crunch. Bite down on that tooth and send me off into sweet sweet oblivion.

No death wish here. I utilise seatbelts, and condoms...um sometimes, and disinfectants occasionally. I avoid cops, blowfish sashimi, and alcohol inspired Russian roulette. But if you are gonna throw the switch on my electric chair, then throw it muthafucka. Stop wasting my time bizzitch.