Last night I dreamt that I was planning my death. Suicide, assisted, messy.
I had someone ready to shoot me. I don’t remember why. The clock on my Life had run out. I don’t remember if that was aesthetic, or health-wise, or some sort of science fiction legal proscription. I think there was an implication that the money had run out and I could no longer afford to rent my… space?
That sounds like a familiar theme.
But in any case there was a man, or a robot that looked like a man. We’d chosen a time and he’d sent me a photograph of where to stand at that time. It was supposed to be a surprise (like in Fletch) but schedules are important so I had to be in the right place at the right time and though it all seemed to make sense at the time, and even come as a bit of a relief, as it was looming I was getting more and more in my head about it. Messy? Spectacular? Keep things clean for an open casket? Mess my hair? Would my hair shoot out the back of my head like an ink splatter?
We’d eventually decided that some sort of expanding bullet would be perfect and that attendees of the shooting should wear white, like at a GWAR concert, so they had something to remember me by.
I woke up to continued discussion as to whether attendees should wear goggles or not.
Discomfited.