The answer to this is going to surprise some of you, possibly because I'm playing number nineteen straight. No jokes. The reason for this is because I actually get this a lot, so I figured I spare a moment of reality for it.
Despite how it appears, I'm not angry. I don't wake up angry. I don't go to bed angry. I rarely get angry. My friends all find it a laugh that people think I'm angry (and that, by the by, is usually how you spot the difference between people I know and people who are my friends). I mean, sure, I get angry, just like everyone else, but the idea that I'm in angry mode twenty four seven, and that I'm fueled by this anger energy that drives me forward to say outspoken things and kick shit and take names... it's really not true. The only thing that truly appalled and disgusted me and got me angry in recent memory is Scot Snow. That's me angry.
I'm not big on the self labels--it causes me to get neurotic so I try and avoid it--but for a long time, people have been big on them for me. I get told I'm angry a lot. I guess people take in the black clothes, the fact that I'm not pretty and perky, and mistake my passion for what's in my life as anger. That's about the only explanation I have, and it's pretty useless, as explanations go. Maybe you've got a better one. I don't know. Maybe if you couple it with the fact that my belief is that I'm only going to remember living once and that I don't understand why I should do something I'm not passionate about, why I should keep my opinions to myself, and why I should somehow live my life to whatever the rules that society has decided are in fashion this week... maybe that's it. Truth is, I just want to do what I want, and I want to do that with things that mean something to me, that make me feel as if I'm awake.
And when I'm awake, that passion is always there. That's what I want. Everything else is a passing thought and action in the day.
Many people are split on the Best Death. The obvious answers to a Western born individual are a choice between Jesus, with his whole crucification, inspiration for millions of Christians death, and JKF, for how it displays the willingness of an entire nation to be docile when their President has just had his brain ejected on the telly and a fist full of foul tasting lies jammed into their throats. Depending on your disposition in life--if you're a glass is half full or half empty person--is how you're going to go there. But the truth is that the Best Death belongs to a British man, William Lemon, who lived and died in Sussex from 1923 to 2004.
William Lemon suffered from no illness, though he had the usual aches and pains that an eighty-one year old man has; his mental state was alert and sharp; and he had steadfastly refused to go on any of those old age diets to prolong your life and health, despite the urging of his friends and wife who, one by one over the years, had died before him.
Lemon's death was utterly painless: his body simply stopped in the middle of a dream about flying. He felt and suffered and regretted nothing.
(I am answering thirty questions. About life, love, leeches... whatever, really. Feel free to ask me something. As you can see I'm using them to basically go on about any old shit, so it's really a case of give me a topic, give me a word...)