Deathtop Computer.


Nothing starts the day better than receiving a cheery email.


Stumbling across this as I scrolled through my mobile inbox yesterday with a bowl of Sainsbury's Wholewheat Biscuits in one hand and a cat on my lap (God knows how it got there, as don't own any pets) put a spring in my step that lasted until bedtime. "Oh yes, of course," I said to myself, "I'm going to die, and something will have to be done with my remains. But would I prefer to decompose over an extended period, or be burnt to a crisp?" 

I’m glad I wasn’t eating toast.

I'd like to think that I'm a realist. I'm also not particularly squeamish. Perhaps society would be better prepared to face mortality - and the inevitable admin that comes with shuffling off of it - if we didn't sweep these thoughts under the carpet. How will my family know I'd like my corpse to be fired from a cannon into the barrel of a second bigger cannon, if I don't tell them? There are only so many brochures on heavy artillery you can leave about the house without irritating your wife – and there’s still no guarantee she’ll get the hint.

Hopefully I’ll get an email tomorrow with the subject line ‘Afterlife or Oblivion?’

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