Having lived in Florida for most of my life, I’ve never been perilously near to a fault line. Rocks and I get along, mostly because I have never had reason to suspect that they will eventually be the death of me. (I have a small collection of them on my desk, largely acquired from such places as World Of Science and metaphysical bookstores, but I couldn’t tell you anything informative about most of them other than “ooh, pretty”.)
Decapitation while skydiving isn’t out of the question, but since Kats always land on their feet, I’m more likely merely to end up with my legs crushed into a bloody, bone-shard-shredded pulp.
I have, however, speculated upon other ways in which I am likely to go:
1. Curiosity. Poetic justice, you see, with a name like this, and my personality only makes it all the more inevitable. My last words will likely be “hey, what happens if I do th-“.
2. Struck by lightning. That living in Florida thing, where summer is one thunderstorm after another, and where I can often be found playing in the rain in open fields. Unless all the movies are right and I just end up with cool supernatural powers instead.
3. Fatal indigestion. My quest for the most preposterous peanut-butter sandwich combination possible may one day catch up with me, but what a way to go!
Well, don’t you people ever think about these things?