I do not think that I will know what hit me when the end comes. I doubt if I will be found dead of a self-inflicted gunshot wound to the head, as I don’t own a gun. I will not hang myself or bleed myself or overdose myself to death; these forms of suicide make me very nervous. I may be found in some alley stabbed to death, but that is unlikely. I don’t think I will die on some operating table, as I doubt if I will have insurance.
My death, like my life, is more likely to be humiliating. I will probably be found dead with my head resting against a keyboard. On the computer screen will be the ad of a transsexual prostitute on backpages whom I was jerking off to before I died of a heart-attack upon orgasm. The cops, when they find me dead, would laugh if they were not so overwhelmed by my decomposing flesh.