CULTURE
If I Die Tomorrow, I Won’t Have To Do That Thing With That Guy
In which I question why I ever agree to do anything I’m not legally obligated to do and whether the effort to fake my own death is a reasonable option and possibly worth the trouble
I’ve never really been suicidal, but I have at times considered death to be a slightly better option than whatever it was I had to do. I hate having plans. I truly do. They hang over my head like a noose made from a damp towel someone left on the floor of a gym bathroom.
I’m usually pretty good at not making plans, but clearly not good enough, as they continue to periodically show up, like an unwelcome process server, handing you a summons to appear in court. The realization itself is similar to the five stages of grief.
“I agreed to do what?” I’ll ask incredulously. “When did we talk about this? I don’t remember agreeing to that. What the hell was I thinking? How long do we have to stay?”
Why do I let myself get roped into these things? Why can’t I just be honest and tell people, “I’d rather not.” That doesn’t seem so hard. If I’ve had half a chance to think about it, either before they’ve asked, or at least during a…
