… having your nuts bit off by a Laplander, that’s the way I wanna go!
Either that, or auto-erotic asphyxiation.
Anyone else slightly weirded out by **Gam Zeh Yaavor **predicting his/her own suicide?
For a while, I was convinced I would eventually die in a fall from a medium height, since I once dreamed it so vividly, so thoroughly.
But the way today is going, I will die of boredom.
(Gawd, I love Ads by Google. The ad on the bottom of this thread is for an agency that promises compassionate hospice care. The best part is that they’re called “Autumn Journey.” Ugh.)
He has posted about having treatment-resistant depression in other threads. I certainly hope that his prediction doesn’t come true.
I’m not. People sometimes commit suicide, and it’s not easy for people who aren’t depressed to understand that urge. And should we necessarily put a judgment on it? If someone wants to die, I’m not really sure if it’s anyone else’s place to say they shouldn’t.
I’ll die of old age in my bed, surrounded by my family, after having told them how much I love them.
What’s the old joke?
“I want to die peacefully in my sleep, like my Grandfather. Not screaming and yelling, like the passengers in his car.”
I know you’re joking (and I assume SmashTheState isn’t) but I could never lay such a heavy burden on someone else. The majority of cops go through their entire careers without ever having to fire their weapons, and the only thing they can take comfort in after doing so is that it was “justified” - that “it was him or me” or it saved innocent people or even “he had it coming” (in the case of child rapists and the like). But killing someone who had an unloaded weapon, who lacked the courage to kill themselves? That’s an act of psychic perdition and leaves one victim alive; the cop.
I’d prefer to go at a ripe old age, just after my wife (not that I necessarily want to go before her, but she’s expressed many times how lost she would be without me).
If my brother goes before me, he gets a tombstone that will say “Gone to get parts” in honor of the many jobs we’ve worked on together that I’ve stayed and completed while he’s run off to Home Depot or Lowes.
I’ll develop some kind of treatable disease, but due to the lunatic Obamacare I wont get help in time and die languishing in my bed while my children watch in horror.
It’s really a shame that it will be this instead of your insurance company denying you care.
The bulter does it.
Sucks to be you. 
Four hours before the series finale of Lost, I get into a fatal car accident while changing lanes.
It will be the actions of someone else that kills me, I believe that much.
The bus 23 finally running me over.
The vehicle fed up with waiting for me to cross the street.
The gun in the hands of an enemy.
The staple gun in the hands of a friend.
00:01 PST December 21, 2012. Crushed by rogue asteroid, while playing blackjack, drunk surrounded by hookers.
Two days before my 100th birthday and four days before my children and grandchildren are scheduled to depart on that once-in-a-lifetime trip around the world.
Or, according to my wife, attempting a simple repair at home.
Mauled by a lion.
Yeah, it was stupid of me to drop that one. Sorry if I caused any immediate concern; that certainly wasn’t my intent. Be assured that for the time being I’m very much committed to exploring all possible avenues of treatment (Seroquel starts in a few days, huzzah!), and if I ever do off myself it’ll be years down the road. In any case, there are still some things I’d like to do and see, so that’ll keep me around for a good while.
Killed in a freak accident riding Pirates of the Caribbean in Walt Disney World. Last words will be “Fred, what are the odds?”
Len
I’ll probably die from falling and breaking a hip at 88…
… falling out of a second story bedroom window because her husband came home early.
Roger McGough