Sarah gave a lovely Valentine's Day open house today for girl friends of all ages. The food looked and tasted delicious and I saw many people I love.
One of them was Emily, who sat by me and we had a great discussion on killing ourselves and how it should be done. She had an idea that I hadn't thought of: injecting yourself with a weed killer. Instantaneous results. What weed killer I wanted to know.
"I'll email it to you," she said. "Oh no, we can't have a paper trail. I'll just have to whisper it to you."
No, we can't have a paper trail. One of us may want to run for president one day.
You have to do this yourself and preferably in a motel, so that your relatives aren't put in jail. Leave a friendly note.
We agreed Tylenol was a bad idea. Not fast enough. It could fail or you could just die slowly of ugly liver failure.
Pills. You've got to know your pills and which combinations. I told her that Bernie Madoff and his wife took a fistful of Ambien, but they both woke up the next day. Sometimes, the universe insists you face the music.
Also if you plan your own death, you wouldn't plan anything that might make you vomit. Seriously, I'd rather be dead than vomit.
Anyway, it was just the kind of dark conversation I like the day before Valentine's Day at a women's afternoon light lunch.
Sally let me paint her toenails. Sarah sent me home with food.
Tom bought us roses to mark the day.
Happy Valentines Day, everyone.