To say that I have no regrets right now would be a lie. I've too many to count. But I look forward to passing, because the dead have no regrets. Or memories, good, bad or otherwise. Or anything else, for that matter, that could be distressing.

A neighbor recently explained to me that, when I die, my soul would be sucked up by some alien civilization, and I'd live on for eternity aboard a spaceship or on a planet, or some such nonsense. Christ, I surely hope she's wrong! The last thing I'd want is to survive in some incorporeal form, with all of my memories and emotions—worst of all my regrets—intact, forever. I'd describe that as a living hell worse than any I've already experienced.

If I had my way, I'd just slip quietly into the night, to mangle Dylan Thomas. I've done a few interesting things, but nothing I'd insist the world acknowledge. This brief memoir, together with all of my other various websites, should be enough for anyone to see I'm just a harmless, forgettable grump.

Final regrets: I can't tell everyone I've known how I felt about them—in particular, the women I've loved, even briefly, although my second ex and I are still close friends—truly a gift; our honeymoon stands as one of my most treasured memories. I remain in touch with most of the men who have been important to me, so I know they know.

I've also got a fairly sizeable number of "e-friends" all around the world. I'd love to have visited with you all, if only to thank you for your emotional support. You know who you are. You've touched my heart. There's little more precious to me than that.

I am done. It is good.



DKS, 18 September 2020

Chapter 8 < TOC

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