Swiftly, painlessly, and old.

And even if my voice goes before I do, I shall continue to write polemics against religious delusions, at least until it’s hello darkness my old friend. In which case, why not cancer of the brain? As a terrified, half-aware imbecile, I might even scream for a priest at the close of business, though I hereby state while I am still lucid that the entity thus humiliating itself would not in fact be “me.” (Bear this in mind, in case of any later rumors or fabrications.)

Quickly, without warning, maybe even in my sleep, and while we're putting in requests: before I lose my mind and my ability to gallop across the countryside on horseback.

Sometimes when I’m on a plane, as I often am, the weather is rough and we’re worried about going down. I think: If I hold the hand of the person next to me, I’ll be holding everyone’s hand. Like my dear friend, the late Wilma Mankiller, principal chief of the Cherokee Nation, I want to know: I’m going to the other side of the mountain.

That it all goes away and never comes back.

Probably being granted all-access to a Disney theme park with my husband, David, and a group of close friends—and just us—while we wandered and drank tropical tiki drinks. No judgment, no lines, no bad weather, and no hangovers. Oh, and our twins would be there too, but only when they’re happy and meltdown-free. I guess the same would go for David.