Peacefully, in good physical health, sound of mind, still active, at a great age, with my children around me.

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.)

In my sleep, “dreaming android dreams of electric sheep.”

In my sleep in my 90s, after a great gig.

Meghan Markle. I don’t know how she continues to walk through this world with the grace, strength, and purpose that she does given the unbearable amount of vitriol and hate she has been subjected to, but she does. I wish she didn’t have to.

Balloons. I have a big phobia of balloons. Big.

If hoarding and procrastination were Olympic sports, I’d have at least 70 gold medals.

In the hospital giving birth to my second daughter with my first daughter right there in the room as it was happening. I don’t remember any pain. I just remember feeling more alive and full of fierce mama bear love than at any other point in my life.

Being at home on a Sunday night with my husband, Will, and all of our children, eating chicken tikka masala and naan from our favorite restaurant.