I just want it to be peaceful and painless.
If I can’t have that, then there had better be at least three nubile redheaded females involved!
The only color I could think of would be red.
Enjoy turning day-glo yellow, slowly succumbing to ammonia induced insanity, and being too sick to climb out of bed when diarrhea that looks like grape jelly strikes (in case you were wondering, it’s clotted GI blood). If you’re lucky, you’ll get esophageal varacies first, and when the pressure gets too high, they’ll burst, and you can spend your last moments drowning in your own blood.
Liver disease is one of the nastiest ways on earth to go.
If you’ve ever read Oliver Sacks’s short story, “A Passage to India” in his book, The Man Who Mistook his Wife for a Hat, that’s how I want to go. A girl in her 20s developed a brain tumor, which gave her seizures. The seizures presented themselves as beautiful hallucinations of India. As they became more frequent, the visions became more vivid, until she finally died with a smile on her face.
That is so FULL of win.
Personally, I’d like to go out in a hail of gunfire on live tv. Covered in the blood of some federal bureaucrat/politician that has irked me.
I may be a nobody in life but I’d like my death to be glorious.
I want to burn up when the sun goes supernova.
Heat Death of the Universe for me, please.
But you’d have to be transfixed by a single stroke, or it’s not worth it.
So you’d better have a proper harpooner do it, and not some hapless bank clerk with the same initials.
For me?
Facing a firing squad with a cigarette in my mouth with some witty last words ready to go.
Old Age
In my sleep, after finishing the last sf book in my collection. That would be age 120 or so.
But dying like Nelson Rockefeller wouldn’t be bad either.
Hurrah!! For me!! I recognize that reference 
Yes. But at least he would be leaving Las Vegas.
JoeFuckingFriday stole my answer.
It’s what I want my gravemarker to say;
“Death by misadventure”, and I’m not fussy about the nature of the misadventure. Fall off an Ande, slide down a crevass, swept out to sea off some tropical beach, eaten by big fish while snorkelling, sinking of dodgey third world ferry, it’s all good to me!
This makes me so sad reading it - because I don’t want to stop having sex with my bf!
Ok, corny, but for real.
I would like to die in my sleep in his arms where we both die and then wake up together in the next place. He’s got the nicest arms ever and the best chest for resting your head on.
I know, I know. You all are rolling your eyes at my sentimentalism - but it’s true.
I’d like to be served a large glass of Duckhorn Vinyards Merlot with an oxycontin chaser, by a topless red-headed registered nurse, while relaxing on Lazy-Boy recliner in the middle of the operating room an all female staffed surgicenter/med-spa. Following that, I’d like to be masked and delivered a 40% concentration of nitrous oxide, slowly increasing to 80%, by a bottomless blond dental hygienist while she massages my gums. Then, I’d like the volatile anesthetic, sevoflurane, to be slowly introduced concomitantly and in balance with the nitrous oxide, by a totally nude buxom brunette anesthesiologist. Then, I’d like the raven-haired dominatrix-lingerie clad urologist who was, up till now massaging my prostate vigorously, to remove her finger, and then push a diaphragm-collapsing dose of the muscle relaxant pancuronium bromide and barbiturate sodium thiopental into my IV line. In conclusion, I’d like the entire staff to shoot body shots of Grey Goose from my navel until rigor mortise sets in and my corpse is sent to the morgue to be prepped by a naughty mortician wearing a plaid Catholic School dress.
Same here.
I’ve been thinking about it and I want to change my answer to:
In my husband’s arms. Of course, that certainly doesn’t preclude ‘death by misadventure’, it just means I won’t be alone!
When I asked my husband this question he instantly answered; “Saving someone’s life!”
Wow, I’ll die in your arms any day!
Right now is ahead of time. 
Ruthlessly torn limb from limb by hordes of the living dead, but not before I’ve offed several hundred of the zombies first.
J.G. Ballard might. But I think he’d probably rather fly a Spitfire into Paul Haggis’s house in a suicide attack.