He Died Doing What He Loved

After one our epic, so-loud-the-neighbors-call-the-cops arguments, Andrew stormed off and left me for Indonesia last Friday, I guess to prove some sort of point. As he'll tell it, however, he had long planned to go after winning a scholarship award blah-blah-blah. I'm not buying it. Andrew clearly switched hemispheres as an affront to me. And I already miss him. Asshole.

Before we came to fisticuffs, Andrew shared an amusing conversation he had with his parent about the prospect of dying while in Indonesia. In the case of his demise, he had specific instructions for his tombstone. No matter the situation, Andrew wants to be remembered as "doing what he loved" -- for example, "Andrew died doing what he loved: being chased by a cheetah." His already nervous parent, however, did not much appreciate his morbid humor. I, on the other hand, am in love with it, and trembled with laughter at each subsequent suggestion we came up with.

"Andrew died doing what he loved: battling Dengue Fever."
"Andrew died doing what he loved: drowning."
"Andrew died doing what he loved: undergoing chemotherapy."
"Andrew died doing what he loved: hanging himself."
"Andrew died doing what he loved: playing hide-and-seek in abandoned refrigerator."

The prospects were not only endless, but endlessly amusing. It provided me with so much inappropriate joy that it almost makes me want a tombstone, were I not so opposed to them. If the world is going to insist on breeding at this excessive rate, its going to at least stop devoting large plots of land to cemeteries to immortalize the deceased. There's room for either your new babies or your dead parents, not both. That said, if Andrew is to have a fatal run-in with a cheetah (fingers crossed, Andrew!), I'd be willing to overlook my perspective in order to permanently etch such hilarity into stone.

If anyone has other thoughts on how Andrew might die doing what he loves, please share in the comments section.