Corpse: (n) a dead body, usually of a human being.
Sorting through a cavalcade of thoughts, I think I have finally arrived at a couple of notions that seem to hold true in spite of my own personal ridicule of them, and history proving that they’re ridiculous.
One such inkling is that I don’t really mind dying—I would just like to do it well and not have a bunch of people staring at my corpse.
I don’t want to come to the end and be chicken shit or do something stupid like squeal like a squirrel.
I don’t want to have a gun pointed at me, and in a fit of weakness push a nearby child forward to take my bullet.
I don’t want to suffer, but I also would like to have the honor of “last words.”
It’s the corpse thing.
I learned a long time ago to stop bitching about my body and just focus on my body of work.
I got dealt an interesting accumulation of haphazard DNA possibilities. So I don’t want a bunch of people staring at my fractured and now-breathless frame, making judgments.
I don’t want to look “natural.”
I don’t want some technician in a morgue taking a peek at my penis.
(I know it’s silly.)
I don’t want two doctors shaking their heads as they stare down at my blob, speaking to one another in hushed tones about how I could have extended my life if…
None of us were meant to be “a corpse.”
We were just meant to die, and once dead, as quickly as possible, to shed our skin, and somewhere, somehow, possibly become a new creature.
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