Oh that’s a higher level of after-death coping. I’m skittish with the dead. And I guess a bad idea for you, with the local dogs and all, who’d be fighting over your fingers and toes. I still intend on dying right. I’ve mentioned it before, but if I’m still as brave on November 27, 2054, as I pretend to be now, I’m going into the woods with my father’s 120 proof bourbon, building a fire, drinking until I pass out, and never waking. It’s just got to get cold enough that night for the hypothermia. Then the coyotes can have my toes!