Having reached the advanced age of 30, I worry a lot about dying. Okay, about half the time I'm convinced that this is all a very clever computer simulation and I'm just a bit character and someday I'll walk off stage and that'll be that and I won't even know it, but the rest of the time I worry about death. Specifically, I worry about dying in an embarrassing way.

It just seems far more likely that I'll go out in some farcical fashion rather than a nice, dignified death in my sleep. Since I won't be around to care, why do I worry? No idea. I just hate the thought that you'll all be laughing at me when I'm gone. You bastards.

Here are the ways I've considered it possible that I might be die:

1. Rolling over in my sleep and stabbing myself on the kitchen knife I've considered keeping in bed with me just in case I am attacked by monsters in the middle of the night.

2. Athlete's foot.

3. Falling down the back stairs while taking my laundry to the basement, knocking myself out, then drowning or poisoning myself with the Tide liquid detergent as it leaks from the container into my mouth before someone finds me.

4. Poisoning myself with my cooking, most likely something involving chicken or eggs or dented cans that I don't notice are dented because they're dented behind the label.

5. Anything involving my sphincter.

As you can see, these are all very valid concerns. Though I've taken preventative steps to avoid most of these scenarios, there are surely dozens of other ridiculous ways to die that will leave you all snickering over my corpse at the funeral. In the event that I do pop off in one of these or a more ridiculous fashion, I ask that you try to think of me kindly. And I hope that you go in a sillier way.

You bastards.