Let there be cannons. Cue the acrobats and firebreathers. Bring on the vaudevillians and trubadours to artfully tell the tale of my life. Send the funeral barge into the bay to be lit on fire by a flaming hour shot by someone dear to me. Just let it be someone with good aim; multiple attempts would so ruin the moment.

Fill the sky with color, fireworks to make New Year’s Even jealous. Strike up the band, nothing but happy tunes fit for dancing. Say no sad things. Scream if you must, but make it a mighty yowp to the heavens to herald my coming. Let me go then hold close whomever is left in my wake.

Unless my wife isn’t dead yet, in which case she’ll insist on a terribly boring funeral, one of those staid affairs where everyone wears black. You know the type, with casseroles provided by the ladies at church and a weepy monologue or two. It’s not what I’d want, but it’ll make her feel better.

It’s the story of my life. It might as well be the story of my death.