well, shit

It was while reading this article that I was led to this heart-age test, which as you see, informed me I'm in a heap of trouble, although I'm surprised that it's putting my life expectancy (cardiac expectancy?) so high. I've long joked that I plan to be dead at 60.

My father suffered a heart attack in 2006 at the age of 64, three years before Mom was diagnosed with brain cancer. He got the usual stents and cautions, and I think he may have changed his lifestyle somewhat. Since I haven't talked to him since 2010, I have no idea how he's doing these days, although I heard he's now sporting two hearing aids. Both of his parents were alcoholics who also had histories of heart disease; heart disease haunts my mother's side of the family, too, although Mom's big sister seems to be going strong despite being in her eighties. I suspect she's powered by anger at the world. Anyway, my aunt notwithstanding, I expect to be done in by a massive heart attack: a minute or two of nightmarish, pounding agony, followed by a sweet descent into the dark. Yeah... that's likely my ticket to ride. I won't die the super-athlete's death—you know what I'm talking about: the guy who's energetic and bouncy well into his nineties until, one day, everything goes to shit in a sudden cascade failure and the motherfucker dies peacefully in his sleep—no choking, no gasping, no purpled face and bursting veins, no cosmic feeling of fear and confusion, just... poof. I'd love to have that sort of death, or to have my head blown off by a sniper when I'm a hundred. Whatever works.