...it could be because I went Mad for the Gale and Refused to Come In, and now I can't whine as my body slams against the cliffs in the towering Big Sur surf that drove Kerouac over, bits of brain and kelp and bone matter roiling about me in pinkish sea-foam...
Or maybe I got a little too close to The Man this time, right before they blew him to flaming bits, DMT or Salvinorin A or maybe the multiple concussions I sustained as a lad cutting off all access to any decent pre-frontal lobe sense of self-preservation--
Or perhaps I was stabbed and robbed whilst in an opium/hashish stupor in a thatched hut deep in a misty Myanmar jungle, strange animal and human cries falling dead and muffled as if on snow--
Or maybe--and this is my favorite, I think-- I was ripped to death by bear, by just being stupid, camping yet again in an off-limits section of Cascadia, getting stoned while I tossed out a pad and my bag and another pad for the dog, careful to stay above the incoming tide and build a small fire downwind, then just forgetting and sleeping next to nearly a pound of smoked salmon...
The point is, the scenarios above describe arguably unsavory and untimely ways to die.
But I'll take any of them over being tortured to death or hunted for sport on another human's say-so.
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