A fear of not “going out with a bang.” I don’t want to die alone, decrepit and with someone on hand to wipe the crumbs from the corner of my mouth. I don’t want to be staring at the faces of my children and not remember the times we shared, let alone their fucking names. I don’t want to be the burden that nobody wants to admit actually is one. I figure I’ve got two choices to remedy this, either live my life “with a bang” and just hope that sooner or later it takes me out at the same time or do a Hunter S. Thompson and redecorate the walls with the inside of my skull when I can feel my days in a care-home fast approaching. The first one hasn’t worked for the last few years so it looks like I’m going to have to invest in a gun eventually, I’m thinking Hunter was bang on with 67.