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Gee, I Always Thought It Would Involve an Angry Mob, Somehow

I know how I’m going to die.

You can’t imagine what a load off my mind this is. No more uncertainty, or wondering, or worrying — now, I can just sit back, relax, and wait for the inevitable to eventually happen. And I know exactly how it’s going to happen. Hey, lucky me!

And that’s not all. No, not by a longshot. I also know at what time I’m going to die, within an hour or two — it’ll be mid-morning, somewhere between about eight and ten am. And I know that I’m going to be alone. And I’m going to be naked. That’s right — all alone, without a stitch of clothing on. Just the way I came into this world, except I’m hairier now.

(Though some people would tell you my head’s just as soft… hey, fuck them, man. Nobody asked them, anyway. Buncha assbags.)

What’s more, I even know where I’m gonna bite the big one. It’ll be in my upstairs bathroom. That’s where they’ll find me, in the afternoon or next day — naked in my bathroom, cold and dead and hairy. I just hope I’m… er, represented well. Does rigor mortis cause shrinkage? I’d better check on that. That would be embarrassing, even post mortem.

So, how do I know all of these details about my impending demise? Well, it’s quite simple, really. It’s just a matter of putting two and two together. Here are the important facts:

• I am not a morning person. I hate being awake, or even alive, before ten am, when my brain finally switches on. It’s all I can do to not drool before ten, and sometimes more than I can do. Just ask my (often damp) wife.
• There are at least three days a week when I have morning meetings at work, and thus am forced to drag my slobbery carcass out of bed before I’m ready, and ‘autopilot‘ it to the shower, where I hope I’ll wake up enough to at least wash my hair, face, pits, crotch, and rear end. (And in that order, or all bets are off. This is not a sequence you want to experiment with.
• More often than not, I don’t wake up while in the shower, which leaves me to ‘mumble, grumble, stumble, fumble‘ my way through the rest of my hygienic machinations, without a brain to help me.
• The medicine cabinet in our upstairs bathroom, where I shower, is woefully undersized, which forces my wife and I to be rather creative about where to store certain of our toiletries.
• One such toiletry is the mouthwash, which I use every morning after brushing my teeth. (Or brushing my nostrils, or my ears, or the top of my fricking head, depending on just how sleepy I am that morning.) The mouthwash — minty Scope, I believe it is — is in the cabinet under the sink.
• Here’s a list of the other bottles under the sink, most of which have the same screw-top cap as the Scope: TidyBowl toilet cleaner, Drano, Tilex tile cleaner, SoftScrub, and Jergens hand lotion.

Surely, from this list of circumstances, you can see what’s going to happen. One day, without thinking — because I’ll be incapable of rational thought at that hour — I’ll grab a handy bottle and take a hearty swig of poison. I’ll probably stand there, naked and dripping and oblivious, gargling bleach like a frigging fool, and that’ll be it for me. Cooked. Done. Disinfected, permanently.

I suppose if I’m lucky, I’ll just get a mouthful of that lavender-freesia shit that my wife rubs on her hands. That might not kill me, at least. Though I’d probably wish I were dead, if I had to walk around with that taste in my mouth all day. Nobody likes a guy whose breath smells like a grandma, you know. And I don’t mean a grandma’s breath; I mean a all-over, rubbed-down, full-body grandma.

(I don’t even know what grandma’s breath would smell like, anyway. Applesauce and aspirin? Marmalade preserves? Vodka and pills and chocolate chip cookies? Dunno. I love my granny and all, but it’s been a while since I got any tongue. A long while, indeed.)

So, there it is — the story of my death, before the actual dying. I know the how, and the where, and even the attire, or lack thereof — I just don’t know exactly when it’s going to happen. But if you don’t hear from me for a couple of days, could you send somebody over to check the bathroom, please? Don’t leave me there too long, with the foamy mouth and the blue lips and the cold water running in the sink. Oh, and one more thing — try to ignore the fact that I’ll be naked, and resist the urge to ‘sneak a peek’. I’m sure there’s gonna be some shrinkage — yeah, ‘shrinkage’; that’s what it is — and I’d like to go out with as much dignity as a naked, dripping, addled dead guy can.

Hmmm. Yeah, that doesn’t sound so good, does it? Shit. Maybe I’ll start brushing my teeth with my boxers on, just in case. That’s one less thing I’ll have to worry about, anyway.