Hello. Here are all the ways I could have died today:
— Wake up, roll out of bed, conk head on nightstand, die.
— Wake up, roll out on other side of bed, conk head on other nightstand, die.
— Wake up, begin coughing up blood, never stop. Die.
— Get out of bed, do this massive morning stretch where all my ligaments are torn from my body and my left brachiocephalic vein completely disconnects from my heart. Not sure what the brachiocephalic vein does? Well, it’s important because I just died.
— While walking to the bathroom, think to self, “It’d be awful if I had a heart attack and died right now.” Then that happens and I die.
— During walk to bathroom, accidentally step on exposed nail, begin bleeding. Convince myself it’s not that much blood. Know in the back of my mind that I’ve never seen this much blood in my entire life. Pass out, die.
— Swallow toothbrush.
— During shower, momentarily lose balance on slippery bathtub floor but miraculously stop self from falling, feel sense of relief, say to self, “Seth, you really dodged a bullet there,” immediately slip again, snap neck on shower ledge, die.
—During shower, drink a ton of water, die.
— During shower, water pressure suddenly becomes extremely high. Torso gets blown clean off.
— During shower, Tiny Man emerges from toilet bowl, hops into shower with me, and says with the friendliest of smiles, “Hey ya, pal, I’m Tiny Man, how are ya?!?” I have a heart attack and die.
This thing with Tiny Man could have gone one of two ways, and in both circumstances I die. Here is the other way it could have gone down with Tiny Man.
Tiny Man emerges from toilet bowl, hops into shower, and introduces himself. We have a pretty good time in the shower, laughing, talking, splashing, etc. And then Tiny Man suddenly growls, flashes his very sharp teeth, jumps into my mouth, and bursts through my stomach. I die. But, because the whole thing proved more taxing on Tiny Man’s body than he originally thought, Tiny Man also dies.
Here are more ways I could have died today:
— Following shower, reach for towel, something really bad happens, I die. (couldn’t think of anything for this one)
— Exit apartment, begin patting my pockets to see if I remembered my wallet and keys. I don’t feel them so I begin patting harder and harder. I pat myself to death.
— Step outside, wave hello to my neighbor, take out a gun and blow my brains out.
— While crossing the street, get run over by everything imaginable.
— Get into massive car accident on way to work that severs my spinal chord in half and also kills an inner city youth. Hey, they can’t all be fun.
— Get to work, eat 6,000 croissants. Die of that.
— During morning staff meeting, make humorous throat-slitting gesture at coworker, forget that my thumbnail is notoriously sharp, die.
— In attempt to pull a pretty great office prank, suffocate while stuck inside copy machine.
— While sitting at desk, have aneurism, die.
— While sitting at desk, have embolism, die.
— While sitting at desk, have, um, deep vein thrombosis? That’s a thing, right? Well it better be because I die from it.
— While walking back to my cubicle, trip and fall head first into an axe. Why was an axe there? Why was I walking back to a cubicle? Why was I in an office? I’ve been unemployed for a decade.
— On my way home from the job I don’t have I take a dip in the LaBrea Tar Pit. Oh, I live in L.A. by the way. And this is beside the point, but I’m a billionaire because I was once the best brain surgeon in the world. I haven’t been employed in a decade because I retired from being a brain surgeon because of all the money I made doing brain surgery. But like I said, this is just some background information that adds nothing. I die from swimming in the LaBrea Tar Pit, though. That’s what’s important here. Let’s get to the next death thing.
— Something with carbon monoxide? Sure!
— I park my car in front of my house in Los Angeles. I get out of my car (duh), and then my neighbor accidentally crashes into me, pinning my body against a steel girder. The police arrive. They say the only thing keeping me alive — and my body in tact — is the car that has pinned me against the steel girder. I ask if this how Mel Gibson’s wife died in Signs. They don’t remember, but I know that it’s definitely how she died. The question is: If I was so sure this was how Mel Gibson’s wife died in Signs, why did I even ask? To show that I knew a detail from Signs? What was I trying to prove and who was I trying to impress? Anyway, I die.
— Get home from work, forget to disarm apartment before entering front door, the whole place explodes.
— Heat up warm milk before I go to bed. I die because it’s pathetic for a man to do this. Also, I didn’t heat up warm milk. I hung myself.
— Turn on bedside reading light, get very hungry, and then proceed to eat my book, my sheets, my lamp, and my bed. Death.
— While slowly falling asleep, realize I haven’t watered my plant in the last seven decades. Oh, I’m also 97 years old. I die of natural causes.