I used to have a definite deathwish. During my twenties, I decided that I would kill myself when I turned 33. I wasn't depressed, I simply didn't want to grow old. “Decrepitude” has such a nasty ring to it—did then, still does—and an even nastier smell. And now, almost four years past that expiration date, I can report that I was being stupid. But then I go and write stuff like the following...
