Actually, there’s a significant chance that I’ll die at home, while my partner’s off on an extended business trip. The cats will have some great meals for a while . . . until the neighbors smell something terrible.
Having your nuts bit off by a Laplander, that’s the way I want to go.
Stroke, 2069 or thereabouts.
I think I’ll be ready.
Just getting hit by the smell is enough to kill you!
Will just lose the will to live, 2070.
I’m immortal, which makes me worry about where I’m gonna move when the Sun burns up the Earth in 4.5 billion years!
I always figured I’d die at around 85 falling and breaking a hip…
… falling from a 2nd story bedroom window because her husband came home early.