For many years now, I've had this vision of how I want to die. It goes like this.
I lie in a beautiful, white canopy bed in my lovely lace nightgown. I'm propped up by fluffy pillows. The bed is surrounded by friends and family, all crying quietly, knowing that my end is near. A choir sings Swing Low, Sweet Chariot. I gaze at my loved ones, occasionally whispering some words of love and wisdom. I'm very weak but in no pain. Then, it's time. A pair of gentle angels descend to my bedside and lift my spotless soul out of my poor body. My soul looks just like me, only transparent. As the final chorus swells, I rise into heaven.
Well, that's changed, and how.
No more canopy bed and choir. Comfy bed, sure, but no fancypants nightgown. Sweats are fine. Friends and family, yes; but no weeping allowed. Everyone has to tell me a joke. I kiss everybody. Yes, there is music, but it's all my favorite tunes. Nothing sad or soft. And when it's finally time for my soul to get up and go, I want to dance onto the mothership to Parliament Funkadelic's We Want the Funk, turned up to 11.
Make it so.