I want to know the exact day I am going to die. I don’t want to come home one day to find my garage door’s been unplugged so I’d be forced to go through the front door where Death would yell surprise and slice me in half with his sickle. I want to be prepared. I don’t want to get screwed. I want to make sure I milk those last weeks for all they’re worth.
I’ve heard it said that you should live every day as if it was your last. And to that I say, “Bullshit.” You can’t live every day as if it was your last. It can’t be done. It’d be impossible to satisfy every desire you have, which is what I think many of us would want to do during our last weeks of life, every day. You’d be tired. You’d be broke. You’d be fat. And the vast majority of really hot girls or guys won’t give two shits about you. Not every day. Because every day isn’t your last. You’ve still got tomorrow to deal with. That’s what makes your last day unique; no tomorrow.
Do I want to spend my last weeks on earth filing patent applications? Scrubbing my bathtub? On jury duty? Hellz no. Given the option, why would I risk having shit-filled and mundane last days on earth if I knew when those days would be? Well, I wouldn’t. I want to know.
I want to eat and I want to eat well. I want to buy my friends gifts (because I’m such a nice guy). I want to get as much pity sex from really stupidly painfully attractive women as is humanly possible.
I want to know. So I can live my last day like it’s my last day.