If you had to choose the method of your death, what would it be?

Leaving Las Vegas for me, all the way. :slight_smile:

Death by orgasm.

Oh Yeah!!

Killing spree.

Eaten alive by bugs.

Fight with a tiger!

I’m a traditionalist: in my sleep and having Advanced Age and Being Alive as my main medical conditions. I even have a good shoot at it, given the family’s medical history.

Being chased off a cliff by a team of topless roller derby girls.

Not really.

I’d like to die in my sleep, in the midst of a wonderfully warm and pleasant dream.

Well, I’d like to know somehow ahead of time when I’m going to die. And then before I die naturally, kill myself; sort of a way to spite fate or nature as it were. Assert my own choice. As to how; I’d prefer it to be by jumping off a cliff…wired with explosives…shooting myself in the head…into a huge pool of flaming gasoline.

Parachute failure while having sex in free fall.

On my 125th birthday

Yeah, but what are going to do for the last half of the free fall ? :slight_smile:

Bll “trigger finger” fish

That’s when I’d drink the bottle of 125 year old Mouton Rothschild I brought along to celebrate.

Killed by absorption into the Omega Point.

Acute alcoholism at age 100!

Killed in action by the jealous-with-cause husband of a 25-year-old supermodel at age 105.

Assimilated by the Borg.


Peacefully in my sleep at the ripe old age of 318.

Not screaming in terror like my passengers.

Something quick.

Old age.

This might sound weird, but bear with me. . .
I’d like to die of systemic sepsis, in a hospital, with morphine.
WTF? Let me explain:
About 12 years ago, I had a particularly bad kidney stone attack. I went to the ER on Sunday night, they sent me home with Percocet (for pain) and Phenergan (for nausea) and told me to come back if I developed a fever.

By Monday morning, I had a fever. But I was too sick to find my thermometer. And I didn’t give a fuck. I felt like if I could just be left alone to sleep, I’d be fine (and I would’ve been. . .because I’d have been dead). My MIL, though, interfering bitch she is, eventually insisted I go to the hospital. By the time I got there, my temp was 104.7 and my blood pressure was 70/30. See, the stone had blocked the ureter completely, and there was urine backing up into my blood stream, causing a systemic infection.

They removed the stone immediately, via 'scope. Started me on IV antibiotics. But I’d had so many antibiotics over the year, and was so resistant to so many of them, that for a week, my temp was still spiking as high as 105.2 at night, not getting lower than 102 or so during the day.

Finally, my urologist called in a nephrologist for a consult. The neph changed one of my antibiotics and added another. Worked within two days.

By the time the antibiotics were working, I though “Holy fuck, that could have killed me”. Later, I discovered that the urologist had told my hubby if I lived through the first three days, my chances were good. But my odds of living through those first three days were 50/50 at best.

The whole time, they kept shooting me up with morphine, and I was too damned sick to realize how sick I was. I could have drifted off any time during that time, and not minded at all.

In retrospect, I’m really glad I didn’t die, because I actually cried six months later when my husband told me he’d spent two days trying to figure out how to tell our daughters that “Mommy’s dead”. My kids needed me. I’m glad I lived.
(It was also the only time in his entire atheist life that he ever went to a chapel and prayed. He didn’t get anything out of praying, but the fact that he did it. . .that made me cry, too; hey, what can I say? I’m a wuss).

But when it’s my time to go, there are worse ways to bow out.